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ASPIRATIONS 


BY 

HELEN    HAYS 


•    •••••••  ^»  I 


•     •     •      ••••••••••     i 

•  •    •      ••«,    .••■••••    • 


NEW  YORK: 
THOMAS    WHITTAKER, 

1886. 


Copyright,  i^» 


•  ••/••'•  ^  .•  •      •  • 


HCMWY 


MOFSESTEfHCW 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. 5 

CHAPTER  IL    ...••••...       .  IS 

CHAPTER  HL 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 41 

CHAPTER  V. 47 

CHAPTER  VL 68 

CHAPTER  VIL 75 

CHAPTER  VHL 90 

CHAPTER  IX. ,       ....  103 

CHAPTER  X.    .        ,       . 114 

CHAPTER  XL       . 124 

CHAPTER  XIL 136 

CHAPTER  XIIL 143 

CHAPTER  XIV 156 

CHAPTER  XV. 166 

CHAPTER  XVL 178 

CHAPTER  XVIL 189 

CHAPTER  XVIIL I95 

CHAPTER  XIX.    ...» 206 

CHAPTER  XX 216 

CHAPTER  XXI 227 

CHAPTER  XXIL 234 

CHAPTER  XXIIL 244 

3 

514250 


4  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

CHAPTER  XXIV 251 

CHAPTER  XXV. ,        ...  263 

CHAPTER  XXVL 268 

CHAPTER  XXVIL 279 

CHAPTER  XXVHL 289 

CHAPTER  XXIX 302 

CHAPTER  XXX.       ..'.., 312 

CHAPTER  XXXL 324 


ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

It  was  an  old  brown  house,  weather-stained  and 
dreary  looking,  for  there  was  not  a  tree  to  take  it  in 
a  loving  embrace  and  hide  its  old  forlornness  ;  hardly 
a  shrub  grew  near  it,  and  certainly  there  was  no  trace 
of  a  garden.  All  about  it  was  sand,  dazzling  white 
sand ;  and  beyond  the  sand  was  fog,  miles  of  it, 
though  once  in  a  while  a  shaft  of  broad  sunlight  and 
a  sharp  west  wind  would  gather  up  the  fog  and  send 
it  flying. 

That  is  the  way  the  house  looked  to  most  people. 
To  old  Abner  Marsh  and  his  wife  it  was  no  more 
dreary  than  the  woodchuck's  hole  is  to  its  inhabit- 
ants. They  had  lived  there  fifty  years.  Abner  had 
fished,  and  mended  his  nets,  patched  his  sails,  and 
spliced  his  ropes,  caulked  his  boats,  and  watched  the 
varying  signs  of  weather  changes  from  year  to  year, 
without  a  thought  of  what  his  house  looked  like. 
Mrs.  Marsh,  in  the  same  manner,  had  swept  and 
scrubbed,  and  kneaded  her  dough,  unmindful  of 
domestic  architecture,  —  unless  the  chimney  smoked, 

5 


ASPIRA  TIO'Nii. 


or  the  roof^kaked,  in  eitlier  of  ^hich  cases  she  im- 
mediately, as  a  good  housewife,  attended  to  the  mat- 
ter without  much  aid  from  Abner. 

But  there  was  another  pair  of  eyes  under  that  old 
roof-tree,  keenly  awake  to  the  rich  coloring  Time  had 
given  the  old  clapboards,  still  wider  open  to  the  long 
line  of  blue  water  meeting  the  horizon,  the  nearer 
green  billows  with  their  white  caps,  and  the  reflec- 
tions of  the  fitful  sky.  Even  the  fog  was  not  with- 
out charm  for  those  eyes  as  they  watched  it  come 
drifting  down,  blotting  out  all  color  except  that  of 
one  great  red  tossing  buoy  in  the  near  foreground ; 
but  better  than  all  other  aspects  was  that  of  the  moon 
as  she  rose  in  queenly  splendor  from  the  waves.  Then 
those  eyes  could  not  rest  in  slumber,  but  eagerly 
watched  from  the  small  window  the  grand  pageant 
which  had  so  few  spectators ;  watched  the  gradual 
and  dignified  ascent  of  the  Queen  of  Night  to  her 
throne,  and  wondered  if  the  fishes  were  not  glad  to 
have  their  night  lamp  swung  so  high. 

Turning  from  the  window,  a  thin,  flexible  little 
hand  would  seize  a  piece  of  charcoal,  made  from  a 
half-burned  ember  in  the  kitchen  fire,  and  with  rapid 
touches  on  the  bare  whitewashed  wall  reproduce  long 
waving  lines  of  water,  the  round  moon  above,  and 
the  outline  of  a  far-away  ship.  Sometimes  the  ship 
would  be  nearer,  and  all  sails  set ;  again,  it  would  be 
a  shapeless  wreck,  ca&t  against  a  jutting  rock;  and 
again,  there  would  be  only  a  fragment  left,  and  hover- 
ing over  this  an  uncanny  looking  gull.  Murillo  would 
have  delighted  in  the  tangled  pate  so  intent  upon 
these  essays,  and  his  own  beggar  children  could  not 


ASPIRATIONS.  7 

have  looked  forth  from  eyes  of  a  duskier,  dreamier 
darkness. 

But  whence  came  these  eyes  and  this  creative 
hand,  so  unlike  the  unimaginative  Abner  and  his 
wife  ?  Years  ago  a  sailor  lad  had  been  born  and 
bred  under  the  old  roof,  a  wild,  roving  fellow,  and 
Abner's  only  son ;  glad  to  leave  home  and  parents 
and  humble  labor  for  the  varied  fortunes  of  the  sea, 
returning  at  long  intervals,  and  bringing  with  him, 
as  sailors  do,  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  many  voyages. 
Mrs.  Marsh  showed  with  satisfaction  a  camphor-wood 
trunk,  a  green  silk  umbrella  with  carved  ivory  handle, 
and  curious  Eastern  looking  stuffs  by  the  yard,  which 
Abner,  jun.,  had  from  time  to  time  brought  home  ; 
but  the  greatest  curiosity  of  all,  the  little  curly-headed 
two  year  old  boy,  chattering  Italian  like  a  paroquet, 
was  not  brought  forward  as  one  of  these  treasures, 
though  he  had  come  in  the  same  way,  and  though 
Abner,  jun.,  had  never  returned  from  another  voyage, 
which  should  have  enhanced  the  value  of  his  last  gift. 
Who  was  he  t  Where  had  he  come  from }  Mrs. 
Marsh  was  not  quite  sure  that  she  could  answer  these 
questions  ;  perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  the  cam- 
phor trunk  and  green  umbrella  had  the  precedence. 
Lillo  certainly  did  not  give  half  the  trouble  which 
Jack  the  monkey,  Abner,  jun.'s,  first  gift,  had  caused  ; 
and  now  that  Jack  was  no  more,  owing  the  ending  of 
his  days  to  what  the  neighbors  called  a  "  spider  dump- 
ling," surely  Lillo  could  take  his  place.  He  could  and 
he  did,  and  Mrs.  Marsh  was  not  unkind  to  him,  and 
old  Abner  hked  to  have  him  about ;  and  the  child  grew 
strong  and  lithe,  a  veritable  sea-urchin,  and  but  for 


8  ASPIRATIONS. 

his  "vagaries,"  as  Mrs.  Marsh  bore  witness,  he  would 
have  been  quite  a  useful  member  of  the  household. 
But  what  decent  woman  could  tolerate  a  clean  white 
wall  disfigured  with  a  burnt  stick?  Not  even  the 
mother  of  a  Raphael. 

And  so  Mrs.  Marsh,  having  no  knowledge  of 
Raphaels  or  Murillos,  but  having  a  keen  instinct 
that  cleanliness  and  godliness  were  closely  allied, 
had  recourse  to  her  broomstick  and  scrubbing-brush  : 
with  one  she  reproved  Lillo,  with  the  other  she  re- 
moved the  frescoes  from  the  walls. 

Lillo  bore  both  with  philosophic  coolness :  he  did 
not  fear  the  broom-stick  ;  and  when  the  glow  of  inspi- 
ration was  over,  the  sketch  once  made,  he  did  not 
care  what  became  of  it,  and  so  did  not  mind  the 
annihilating  scrubbing-brush. 

Conscious  of  the  power  to  reproduce  what  he 
wished,  when  it  should  please  him,  how  did  it  matter 
that  the  sketches  were  effaced  1  Already  was  he 
prodigal  after  the  manner  of  those  who  have  much 
to  spare.  And  so  he  scrawled  on,  whenever  it  was 
his  mood  so  to  do,  —  waves,  flying-fish,  sea-serpents, 
and  mermaids,  and  the  invariable  ship  coming  and 
going  under  all  sorts  of  conditions.  From  sailors* 
yarns,  from  the  figure-heads  of  vessels,  from  old 
picture-books  left  by  Abner,  jun.,  he  gathered  his 
material,  and  wove  into  it  his  own  imaginings  and 
the  varying  surroundings  made  by  wind  and  weather. 

In  vain  Mrs.  Marsh  remonstrated  and  scolded,  in 
vain  old  Abner  said,  "  Now,  don't : "  the  fine  frenzy 
had  to  have  its  way ;  though  after  a  while  it  left  the 
walls,  and  spent  itself  on  shingles,  bits  of  old  board, 


ASPIRATIONS,  9 

smooth  cupboard-doors  from  dismantled  schooners, 
clam-shells,  and  indeed  any  thing  that  offered  a  fair 
surface  for  the  pencil.  For  the  pencils  were  obtained 
from  a  peddler,  who  took  in  exchange  any  pretty  shell 
the  boy  could  procure. 

There  is  this  similitude  of  force  in  all  living,  grow- 
ing things, — it  will  have  its  way;  from  that  of  the 
tiny  seed  pushing  up  through  the  black  mould,  and 
spreading  out  its  small  green  fibres,  to  the  power  in 
a  human  being's  brain,  expanding,  pushing  out  into 
the  ideas  that  demand  sun  and  air. 

"  Lillo,  Lillo ! "  screamed  Mrs.  Marsh  from  the 
doorway  one  afternoon,  shading  her  eyes  from  the 
glare  which  the  sun  made  on  the  sand. 

"Where  is  the  boy.^"  she  soliloquized,  turning 
abruptly,  and  with  a  startled  manner,  towards  a 
stranger,  who  suddenly  appeared  before  her,  and 
replied  to  her  question. 

"If  you  mean  the  little  curly-head  down  on  the 
sands,  I  can  tell  you  where  he  is,  madam." 

"I  mean  our  boy  Lillo,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh 
stiffly.  "  Every  one  knows  him,  in  spite  of  his  out- 
landish name,  but  no  one  can  find  him  when  he's 
wanted." 

"  I  dare  say  not ;  he  looks  as  independent  as  the 
wind,  but  he's  to  be  found  now  on  the  other  side  of 
the  big  rock  yonder.     Shall  I  go  after  him  for  you  }  " 

"  No,  I  am  obliged  to  you.  He  promised  to  bring 
the  fish  for  supper ;  but  if  he's  where  you  say,  I'll  get 
no  fish  this  day.  I'll  warrant  he's  at  his  trumpery 
picture-makin'." 


lO  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"He  certainly  is  making  a  bold  marine  sketch, 
which  I  greatly  admired,"  said  the  stranger  very 
kindly. 

Mrs.  Marsh  was  not  to  be  mollified.  "  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  know  what  you  mean,  sir,  but  I  wish  it 
was  a  bold  haul  of  a  fish-net.  My  old  husband  is  in 
his  bed,  and  likely  to  stay  there  ;  and  what  we  are  to 
do  for  food,  I  don't  know." 

"  Is  Lillo,  then,  your  only  dependence  t  '* 

"Depend  upon  t/iat  boy.?"  she  queried  in  blank 
amazement.  "No,  I  depend  upon  myself,  old  as  I 
am ;  but  he  can,  if  he  chooses,  get  a  nice  mess  of 
fish  or  crabs  or  clams,  when  the  picture-fit  ain't  on 
him.  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  will  you  come  in  and  be 
seated.?     I  am  not  used  to  seein'  many  strangers." 

The  gentleman  took  off  his  hat,  and  entered, 
saying,  — 

"  The  boy  interests  me.  You  must  know  that  it  is 
very  unusual  to  see  so  early  a  development  of  talent, 
and  in  so  out  of  the  way  a  place." 

Again  was  Mrs.  Marsh  puzzled. 

"  Out  of  the  way  of  what,  sir  .? " 

"  Of  ideas,  of  the  world's  current  of  thought." 

Poor  Mrs.  Marsh  set  her  cap  straight,  untied  and 
re-tied  her  apron-string. 

"Mebbe  you're  a  furriner,  sir.  My  son  Ab  had 
travelled,  that's  the  way  he  used  to  talk;  but  I'm 
not  used  to  many  people,  and  sence  father  took  the 
palsy  I've  been  less  clear  in  my  mind." 

The  stranger  was  evidently  flattered  to  find  his 
conversation  resembled  son  Ab's,  and  looking  good- 
humoredly  about  said,  — 


ASPIRATIONS.  II 

"What  do  you  propose  doing  with  the  bo/? " 

"Oh,  I  don't  do  nothin'  with  him.  I  used  to 
spank  and  to  scold,  but  I'm  past  that  now :  he  does 
as  he  pleases." 

"  But  in  the  future }  He's  growing,  you  know.  Do 
you  intend  that  he  shall  be  a  fisherman  .^ " 

"  I  never  intend  any  thing  at  all  about  that  child. 
The  neighbors  want  me  to  send  him  to  Codtown  to 
learn  the  house-painter's  trade ;  but  like  as  not,  ef  I 
did,  he'd  just  be  up  and  off  afore  the  mast,  as  Ab 
was." 

As  she  talked  she  drew  out  an  oval  mahogany 
table,  which  looked  as  if  it  might  once  have  been  in 
a  ship's  cabin,  spread  a  clean,  unbleached  linen  cloth 
upon  it,  and  took  from  the  dresser  a  few  pieces  of 
china  and  delf,  and  a  pitcher  on  whose  side  danced  a 
jolly  tar. 

"  You'll  stay  to  supper,  sir,  I  presume ;  though 
I've  not  much  to  offer  sence  Lillo's  forgotten  the 
fish." 

At  this  moment,  kicking  up  the  sand  and  trailing  a 
conglomerate  lot  of  rubbish  behind  him,  with  a  whistle 
and  a  merry,  happy-go-lucky  air,  appeared  the  youth 
they  were  talking  about.  As  brown  as  a  chestnut,  and 
as  slender  as  a  young  birch,  his  large  eyes  lifted  their 
long  lashes  beneath  the  rim  of  a  battered  old  felt 
hat,  in  some  surprise  at  seeing  a  visitor ;  but  though 
he  grasped  in  one  hand  a  variety  of  implements,  —  rod, 
net,  boat-hook,  and  an  extemporized  sketch-book,  —  in 
the  other  he  held  aloft  triumphantly  a  string  of  quiv- 
ering fish,  flashing  in  the  sunlight  and  sending  out 
sparkles  from  their  silvery  scales. 


12  ASPIRATIONS. 

"There,  granny,  dear,  I  did  remember  after  all, 
though  you  thought  I  wouldn't,"  was  his  salutation. 
Then  turning  to  the  stranger,  he  bowed  as  gracefully 
and  as  naturally  as  if  in  a  drawing-room ;  though  at 
the  same  moment  he  tossed  his  traps  on  the  floor, 
sent  his  hat  flying  into  a  corner,  and  went  into  the 
kitchen  pantry  to  make  his  ablutions. 

"Now  you  see  the  sort  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Marsh 
grimly,  gathering  up  the  various  articles  the  boy  had 
thrown  down,  putting  them  where  they  belonged, 
and  preparing  to  fry  the  fish. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  nodding.  "  I  see  there 
is  more  than  Yankee  blood  in  his  veins.  But  where 
did  he  get  his  singular  name,  madam  .-* " 

Mrs.  Marsh  stooped  over  the  frying-pan ;  her  aged 
cheeks  were  a  little  flushed. 

"Name  t  Oh,  Ab  gave  him  that  name  just  as  he 
gave  the  monkey  his'n !  I'd  ruther  it  had  been  Jack 
for  the  boy,  and  Lillo  for  the  monkey.  But  the  fish 
are  doin'  nicely  now,  sir ;  so  if  you'll  please  draw  up 
I  will  have  your  supper  ready  in  a  few  moments." 

"  Can  I  not  wait  for  you  and  Lillo  1 " 

"  We  are  not  fit  to  sit  down  with  you,  I'm  afeard ; 
but,  if  you  don't  mind,  Lillo  will  take  his." 

The  boy  came  in  laughing  and  insouciant^  without 
any  of  the  hesitation  or  self-consciousness  of  the  rus- 
tic, drew  his  chair  to  the  table,  and  began  convers- 
ing with  the  stranger  as  though  he  had  known  him 
always. 

"  So  you  like  our  bay,  sir,  when  it's  smooth  water } 
I  think  you  said  down  at  the  rock  that  you  weren't 
much  of  a  sailor." 


ASPIRATIONS.  13 

"  No,  Tin  a  landsman ;  but  this  salt  air  invigorates 
me,  and  the  monotony  of  the  life  is  a  rest,"  was  the 
reply  in  an  absent  manner,  as  if  the  question  had 
been  asked  by  one  who  could  better  comprehend  the 
answer :  then  rousing  himself  as  he  saw  the  boy's 
interrogating  gaze,  he  added,  — 

*'I  should  have  introduced  myself  before.  My 
name  is  Barclay ;  my  health  is  somewhat  broken,  and 
my  physicians  won't  let  me  work.  Boston  is  a  busy 
place,  you  know,  and  idlers  have  to  leave  it,  so  I  have 
come  here  for  a  while.  I  am  boarding  at  *The 
Neck ; '  you  must  come  over  there  and  see  my  books 
and  pictures." 

Lillo's  eyes  widened. 

"  Pictures,  sir,  —  do  you  paint  ?  '* 

"Yes,  after  a  fashion." 

"And  you  use  colors  .''  "  eagerly. 

"  Yes  ;  you  shall  try  them  if  you  want  to." 

"  Want  to  !  "  What  was  not  expressed  in  that  ex- 
clamation.'* Day-dreams,  hopes,  aspirations,  which 
the  boy  could  not  have  uttered  had  he  wished  to,  so 
impalpable  and  unformed  were  they;  and  yet  so 
entirely  did  they  sway  his  thoughts,  that  the  air  sud- 
denly seemed  intoxicating,  and  this  somewhat  gray- 
haired  man  an  angelic  presence.  The  boy  laid  down 
his  knife  and  fork  and  became  perfectly  silent. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Lillo.?"  asked  Mrs.  Marsh. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  boy;  but  his  eyes  were  filling, 
his  throat  contracting.  He  jumped  up  from  the 
table,  and  seizing  his  hat  rushed  from  the  room. 

"  Now,  isn't  he  a  crack-brained  creature  .-*  "  asked 
Mrs.  Marsh,  glad  of  this  proof  of  her  assertions. 


14  ASPIRATIONS. 

Mr.  Barclay  smiled.  He  fancied  he  could  better  un- 
derstand the  whims  of  talent  than  could  this  withered 
old  dame ;  but,  wiser  as  he  was,  he  would  have  been 
astonished  had  he  seen  Lillo,  buried  in  the  sand,  cry- 
ing as  if  heart-broken :  for  the  boy  could  have  given 
him  no  reason  for  this  outburst  of  emotion,  and,  when 
it  was  over,  dried  his  eyes,  bathed  his  face,  and  went 
into  the  house  again,  to  find  Mr.  Barclay  gone,  Mrs. 
Marsh  attending  to  the  sick  man,  and  his  half-eaten 
supper  waiting  for4iim  on  a  corner  of  the  stove. 

He  ate  his  supper  in  solitary  haste,  gathered  fire- 
wood for  his  grandmother,  and  with  an  unusual  alac- 
rity finished  up  all  his  little  duties  and  went  to  bed. 
But  his  brain  was  too  active  for  sleep.  The  sough- 
ing and  sobbing  of  the  waves,  so  familiar,  so  con- 
stantly heard  as  to  be  unthought  of,  disturbed  him, 
and  he  rose  more  than  once  to  see  if  a  storm  were 
brewing.  There  were  no  indications  of  it :  the  moon 
had  not  risen,  but  the  stars  were  shining.  The  black 
mast  of  a  schooner  was  dimly  visible,  and  far,  far 
away  gleamed  the  light  which  was  the  beacon  of  hope 
to  mariners.  At  last  he  slept,  but  his  dreams  were 
brilliant  visions  of  kaleidescopic  fitfulness ;  and  he 
was  awake  again  by  the  time  the  round  red  orb  of 
day  was  soaring  out  of  the  waves. 


ASPIRATIONS,  15 


CHAPTER  II. 

Mr.  Barclay  was  a  man  of  wealth,  leisure,  and 
taste,  none  of  which  he  had  gained  by  any  effort  of 
his  own.  The  wealth  was  inherited,  the  leisure  was 
its  result,  and  the  taste  was  due  to  education  and 
refined  influences,  more  than  to  any  in-born  quality. 
But  despite  this  blooming  hedge,  the  garden  of  his 
happiness  had  not  been  secure  from  sorrow.  He  had 
married  a  lovely  woman,  who  had  been  the  balance- 
wheel  which  kept  his  caprices  from  running  away 
with  him ;  and,  after  a  few  years  of  entire  peace  and 
delightful  congeniality,  she  had  died,  leaving  him 
bankrupt  of  that  which  he  most  valued.  Despond- 
ency and  ill-health  had  followed.  Restlessness  had 
sent  him  hither  and  yon ;  but  the  sights  and  scenes 
of  foreign  lands  were  not  enjoyed,  because  of  the 
absence  of  the  eyes  which  could  not  share  the  pleas- 
ures, and  of  the  mind  which  had  always  been  so  ready 
to  grasp  ideas.  He  had  now  conceived  the  notion 
that  he  must  absorb  himself  in  some  pursuit.  He  had 
some  little  knowledge  of  art,  he  could  make  a  fair 
sketch  in  water-colors ;  and,  as  the  air  of  the  seashore 
suited  him,  he  had  come  down  to  "The  Neck" 
before  it  should  be  given  over  to  the  swarm  of  pleas- 
ure-seekers, to  see  if  time  would  hang  less  heavily 


l6  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

than  it  had  done,  and  if  he  could  accomplish  any 
thing  to  relieve  his  melancholy. 

He  had  been  here  a  week  and  had  done  nothing. 
The  air  was  soft  as  spring  sunshine  could  make  it, 
uninterrupted  by  keen  winds ;  and  he  had  paced  the 
sands  dejectedly,  living  on  his  loneliness,  morbidly 
allowing  retrospection  to  have  its  way,  deceiving  him- 
self with  the  belief  that  this  was  faithfulness,  this 
was  true  devotion,  to  his  lost  love.  It  is  needless  to 
say  that  he  had  no  children. 

Before  he  had  risen  on  the  morrow,  after  his  visit 
to  Mrs.  Marsh,  there  came  a  knock  on  Mr.  Barclay's 
bedroom  door.  The  house  where  he  was  staying  had 
the  usual  barren  nudity  of  a  seaside  lodging-house, 
and  he  had  therefore  encumbered  himself  with  more 
than  a  small  supply  of  luggage  in  order  to  make  his 
transient  home  comfortable.  He  supposed  the  knock 
to  be  that  of  the  man  who  lit  the  blaze  which  his 
delicate  health  necessitated,  even  on  a  spring  morn- 
ing :  so  he  simply  said,  "  Come,"  and  turned  over  for 
another  doze. 

The  door  was  pushed  gently  open,  but  no  one 
entered ;  surprised  at  this,  Mr.  Barclay  glanced  that 
way,  when  he  saw  the  curly  pate  and  the  brown  eyes 
of  the  lad  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  the  day 
previous. 

"  Hallo ! "  was  his  exclamation,  "you  are  an  early 
bird.  Master  Lillo.     Have  you  caught  the  worm } " 

"  Not  yet,  but  I  can  if  you  want  me  to,  sir, "  was 
the  matter-of-fact  reply,  though  his  eager  eyes  were 
devouring  the  whole  room. 

"No,   you   needn't,"   laughed   Mr.    Barclay.      "I 


ASPIRATIONS.  ly 

fancy  /  am  the  worm  this  time.  Come  in,  come  in. 
Just  lift  up  that  shawl  over  there  which  hangs  over 
a  door,  go  into  the  next  room,  and  amuse  yourself  till 
I  am  dressed.  You  will  find  enough  to  keep  you 
busy ;  but,  should  you  get  tired,  there  are  pencils  and 
paper  on  the  table :  do  what  you  please  with  them. 
Have  you  breakfasted  ? " 

**  Yes,  sir."  His  breakfast  had  been  a  cold  potato 
and  a  draught  of  milk. 

The  boy  obeyed  instructions  and  found  himself  in 
a  bewildering  maze  of  delight.  On  the  walls  were 
fishing-rods  and  guns,  sketches  and  etchings ;  a  beau- 
tiful crayon  of  a  sweet-faced  woman  looked  down  be- 
nignly upon  him.  A  tiger-skin  was  stretched  over  the 
hard  wooden  rocking-chair,  a  warm  red  cover  was 
upon  the  table,  books  and  papers  were  heaped  about 
in  all  the  corners,  and  altogether  there  was  a  warmth 
and  comfort  which  the  lad  could  not  have  described 
or  analyzed  ;  but  his  tireless  eyes  roved  from  one 
thing  to  the  other  until  he  caught  sight  of  an  odd 
volume  the  title  of  which  he  could  not  appreciate, 
but  by  opening  it^he  soon  buried  himself  in  the  life 
of  Michael  Angelo  by  Vasari. 

Here  Mr.  Barclay  found  him,  to  his  surprise,  for 
he  had  not  supposed  that  his  few  books  would  be 
any  thing  to  the  boy's  liking,  and,  summoning  him 
to  follow  him,  he  took  him  down  to  share  a  second 
breakfast. 

This  over,  the  mysteries  of  paints,  both  in  water 
and  oil,  were  made  known  to  Lillo,  a  good  supply  of 
materials  given  to  him,  and  his  choice  of  the  books 
also  allowed. 


1 8  ASPIRATIONS. 

A  miner  just  in  possession  of  a  huge  bonanza 
could  not  have  felt  richer  than  did  Lillo,  but  the 
miner  could  not  have  shared  the  exquisite  felicity  of 
this  young  creature  as  at  the  end  of  the  morning  he 
trudged  home  with  his  treasures.  A  new  world  was 
before  him,  with  possibilities  hitherto  unthought  of. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  have  suddenly  grown,  like 
the  fungus  which  in  a  single  night  comes  up  from 
the  earth. 

He  trod  not  on  earth  but  on  air,  and  he  entered 
the  little  kitchen  with  the  exultation  of  a  young 
prince.  The  very  tins  seemed  to  beam  upon  him, 
and  the  cooking-stove  glowed  a  welcome  ;  the  cat 
purred  at  sight  of  him,  and  the  sun  showered  its  gold 
on  the  well-scoured  boards.  Mrs.  Marsh  came  slowly 
out  of  her  husband's  room,  looking  more  jaded  than 
usual. 

"Well,  what's  up  now } "  was  her  greeting. 

"  O  granny,  I  am  going  to  be  an  artist !  " 

"Humph!" 

"  See  all  the  things  Mr.  Barclay  has  given  me.  I 
must  work  now  in  real  earnest." 

"  At  sign-paintin*  ?  " 

A  look  of  supreme  disgust  was  all  the  child 
allowed  himself. 

"  Sign-paintin'  or  house  paintin's  both  onhealthy, 
but  you'll  never  do  much  more.  Hev  you  seen  your 
gran'ther  lately } " 

Like  all  sensitive  children,  Lillo  hated  illness  :  he 
hated  the  wan  look  of  suffering,  the  nauseous  drugs, 
the  unnatural  stillness  of  a  sick-room.  He  had  a  re- 
bellious sort  of  an  idea  that  it  was  unnecessary,  and 


ASPIRATIONS.  19 

that  if  one  chose  one  could  shake  it  off  as  he  would 
a  venomous  insect.  When  called  upon  to  do  any 
little  service  for  his  grandfather,  he  made  no  resist- 
ance, but  it  was  hastened  through  with  as  much  speed 
as  possible. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  not  seen  him  since  day 
before  yesterday.  Does  he  talk  any  to  you.?  He 
never  says  a  word  to  me." 

"No,  he's  past  talkin'.  I  think  he'll  hardly  live 
the  day  out !  "  And  Mrs.  Marsh  threw  her  apron  up 
over  her  face  as  she  sat  down  in  the  rocking-chair. 

Lillo  was  unutterably  shocked ;  all  the  sunshine 
seenied  gone. 

"  Granny,  do  you  mean  that  gran'ther  is  dying  ? " 

"  Yes,  child,  what  else  .? " 

"Sha'n't  I  go  for  the  doctor  or  the  minister  or 
somebody  .'* " 

"  No  use.  They  can't  help  a  poor  old  body  that's 
worn  out.  The  cobbler  can  patch  up  old  shoes,  but 
no  one  can  mend  us  when  we've  served  our  time." 

Lillo  crept  nearer  to  the  rocking-chair. 

"  Granny,  don't  cry :  I  am  here." 

"  Poor  boy  !  " 

"And  I'll  try  to  take  gran'ther's  place.  I  can  fish. 
I  can  manage  a  boat.  I'll  give  up  the  paints  if  you 
want  me  to."  What  an  effort  it  cost  him  to  say 
this! 

There  was  no  answer,  only  the  creak  of  the  rock- 
ing-chair. 

"  You're  tired,  granny.  Won't  you  go  to  bed,  and 
let  me  cook  the  dinner  .<*  " 

The  old  woman  rose  and  suffered  him  to  lead  her 


20  ASPIRATIONS. 

to  the  one  little  spare  room,  which  had  belonged  to 
"son  Ab."  She  was  too  tired  to  attempt  to  keep 
up.  Then  he  freshened  the  fire  and  made  the  kettle 
boil,  fried  the  fish  and  peeled  the  potatoes,  set  the 
table  and  warmed  the  plates.  This  done,  he  went  on 
tip-toe  to  the  sick-room. 

It  was  dark,  except  for  the  light  which  came  from 
a  crack  in  the  wooden  shutters,  through  which  also 
came  the  soft  spring  air.  He  went  up  to  the  bed,  — 
spotlessly  clean  in  its  patchwork  plainness.  He  was 
curious  to  see  what  change  had  been  wrought,  what 
death  looked  like.  He  had  seen  more  than  one 
poor  sailor  carried  up  from  the  shore,  wrapped  in 
tarpaulin ;  but  their  faces  were  as  much  hidden  as 
their  forms,  and  he  could  shape  no  idea  of  what  this 
mysterious  change  consisted. 

He  walked  up  fearlessly  and  listened.  It  was  so 
strangely  still.  The  old  weather-worn  and  storm- 
beaten  face  looked  gray  and  rigid. 

He  spoke  softly,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing 
now-a-days,  — 

"  Gran'ther !  '* 

No  answer. 

"  Gran'ther ! " 

No  reply. 

He  reached  out  to  stroke  the  poor  old  hand,  and 
drew  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  —  it  was  already 
cold.  But  for  the  coldness,  he  was  disappointed  :  he 
had  supposed  there  was  a  grandeur  about  death,  a 
great  and  lofty  unlikeness  to  life.  In  this  case  there 
was  a  barely  perceptible  difference.  The  old  face 
was    no   older,   only   more    soundly,   surely  asleep. 


ASPIRATIONS.  21 

Death  had  come  too  naturally,  and  released  the  old 
man  too  gently,  to  make  the  transition  a  very  palpa- 
ble one.  He  looked  so  comfortable  and  quiet  that 
Lillo  crept  out  again  into  the  sunlight.  It  was  he 
who  seemed  to  be  changed.  His  young  eyes  looked 
forth  on  a  new  world ;  the  bright  one  of  the  morn- 
ing still  lingered  in  his  mind,  but  its  brightness  was 
subdued,  chastened.  He  must  work  now  in  sober 
earnest  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  his  grandmother. 
The  dinner  waited  all  day.  Towards  night  Mr.  Bar- 
clay found  Lillo  digging  for  clams. 

"How,  now,"  he  cried,  "my  young  artist,  how 
many  sketches  have  you  made  .-* " 

"None,  sir,  yet.  Gran'ther  is  dead,  and  I  must 
take  care  of  granny  now.  The  paints  will  keep, 
won't  they,  sir } " 

"  Yes,  child,  they'll  keep ;  and  when  they're  gone 
you  shall  have  more.  Take  this  to  your  grand- 
mother." He  had  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  ex- 
tended a  little  roll  of  bills. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  was  Lillo's  proud  refusal.  "  I 
don't  think  she  would  like  me  to  take  any  money 
I  have  not  earned." 

"As  you  please,"  answered  Mr.  Barclay,  putting 
the  money  back.  "  May  I  engage  you,  then,  to  take 
me  boating  every  fine  day }  I  want  to  study  up  the 
shore  a  little,  and  possibly  I  may  be  able  to  give  you 
some  hints  as  to  your  own  sketches." 

Lillo's  eyes  flashed  their  pleasure.  The  bargain 
was  made  on  the  spot,  and  Lillo  went  on  with  his 
clam-digging. 

Thus   began   an  intimacy  which  proved  to  be  as 


22  ASPIRATIONS. 

beneficial  on  the  one  side  as  on  the  other.  To  the 
saddened  man,  whose  sorrow  absorbed  his  life  and 
colored  all  his  reflections,  this  boy,  with  his  youth 
and  eager  talent,  was  a  strengthening,  revivifying 
tonic.  Mr.  Barclay  found  him  teachable  ,to  an  ex- 
traordinary extent :  he  fairly  devoured  all  the  books 
he  could  get,  and  then  re-read  them.  The  lessons, 
which  became  a  regular  matter,  included  all  the  sim- 
ple elementary  studies  which  Lillo  had  begun  in  the 
district  school,  and  others  which  Mr.  Barclay's  pet 
theories  found  advisable ;  but,  in  addition  to  these, 
the  boy's  keen  eyes  had  picked  up  many  a  fact  in 
natural  history,  just  as  they  had  almost  intuitively 
learned  the  principles  of  perspective.  Quick  also  in 
the  practice  of  his  native  instincts,  his  boating  and 
fishing  were  a  constant  impetus  to  Mr.  Barclay,  who 
found  him  a  lively,  daring  companion,  ready  to  explore 
any  nook,  follow  any  channel,  or  dive  into  any  undis- 
covered way.  One  thing  which  he  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  subscribe  to  was  a  proposition  made  to  him 
by  Mr.  Barclay  as  the  season  wore  on,  the  refusal  of 
which  was  their  nearest  approach  to  any  real  check 
of  friendly  feeling. 

They  were  sketching,  as  usual,  together  on  the 
rocks  and  in  the  shade  of  them.  Mr.  Barclay,  tiring 
of  the  work  which  would  not  yield  its  charm  as 
readily  to  him  as  to  his  young  companion,  had  taken 
up  a  book  and  was  reading,  partly  to  himself  and 
partly  to  Lillo,  when  a  few  strangers,  who  by  this 
time  were  numerous  at  the  Neck,  came  peering  at 
them  with  the  careless  sort  of  rudeness  which  idle- 
ness is  apt  to  beget.     Mr.  Barclay  closed  his  book 


ASPIRATIONS.  23 

impatiently,  and  with  an  air  of  disdain  said  to 
Lillo,  — 

"  This  is  unbearable  ;  why  can't  they  let  us  alone  ? " 

"  Shall  we  go  farther  away  ? "  asked  Lillo,  inwardly 
indifferent  to  the  strangers,  and  caring  very  much  to 
continue  his  sketching. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  "it  would  ruin  your 
work  ;  but  /  must  go  farther  away.  *  The  Neck '  is 
too  much  of  a  resort  now  to  suit  me.  Will  you  go 
with  me,  Lillo }  " 

" Where .^  When?  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr. 
Barclay." 

"  I  wish  to  adopt  you,  Lillo,  take  you  home  with 
me  to  educate  you  and  give  you  the  advantages 
which  you  cannot  receive  here." 

"That  is  very  kind,"  said  Lillo,  flushing,  but  going 
on  quietly  with  his  sketch. 

"  Of  course  you  will  be  willing  to  promise  obedi- 
ence and  respect  for  my  authority.  That  is  hardly 
necessary  for  me  to  demand,  you  show  so  keen  an 
appreciation  for  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  after  a 
while  we  will  go  abroad  together,  as  soon  as  the 
schoolmasters  will  let  us ;  for,  pleasant  as  I  find  it 
now  to  teach  you,  I  may  not  have  quite  time  enough 
to  be  as  thorough  as  I  ought,  or  I  may  find  myself 
too  rusty ;  and  "  —  Mr.  Barclay  was  evidently  plan- 
ning pretty  far  on  into  the  future. 

"What  would  become  of  my  grandmother,  Mr. 
Barclay  t "  broke  in  Lillo. 

"  Really,  I  had  not  thought  of  her.  I  suppose  she 
would  have  no  objections.  She  has  the  good  sense  to 
see  what  is  for  your  benefit.'* 


24  ASPIRATIONS, 

"But  she  is  alone." 

"We  can  arrange  matters  so  that  she  need  not 
remain  alone." 

Lillo  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  leave  granny." 

Mr.  Barclay  looked  astonished. 

"Not  leave  her.?  Why,  child,  she  is  already  an 
aged  woman  with  few  years  before  her,  while  you 
have  all  your  life  to  live." 

"Then  I  ought  to  stay  with  her  as  long  as  she 
needs  me." 

"  But  she  does  not  need  you :  any  one  can  provide 
for  her  few  wants.  She  would  probably  be  much 
relieved  to  dispose  of  you,  Lillo." 

The  boy  again  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  go,  Mr.  Barclay.  You  are  very  kind,  but  I 
can't  leave  granny." 

"  Why,  child,  you  have  no  idea  of  the  value  of  the 
offer  I  am  making.  It  is  not  every  day  that  a  poor 
lad  has  the  chance  of  education  and  a  start  in  the 
world." 

"  I  know  it,  sir ;  or  I  feel  it,  if  I  don't  know  it.  It 
is  kind  of  you ;  but  as  long  as  granny  lives,  I  must 
stay  here." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Mr.  Barclay.  "You  are  not  the 
one  to  decide  this  affair :  you  are  too  young  and  ab- 
surdly quixotic.  Do  you  want  to  be  sent  to  Codtown, 
as  your  grandmother  proposes,  to  learn  the  house- 
painter's  trade.'*" 

"  No,"  said  Lillo  frankly,  "  I  don't." 

"  But  that  will  be  your  fate,  boy,  unless  you  accept 
my  plan.'* 


ASPIRATIONS.  25 

Lillo  worked  on  silently.  His  quick  imagination 
had  seized  the  possibilities  of  Mr.  Barclay's  project 
with  an  intensity  and  vividness  which  its  author, 
sympathetic  as  he  was,  had  no  conception  of ;  but, 
widely  as  his  fancy  led  him,  the  boy's  thoughts  came 
back  to  the  poor  old  roof -tree  and  its  one  lonely  occu- 
pant with  undiminished  faithfulness. 

Mr.  Barclay  took  up  his  book  again.  He  was  an- 
noyed at  being  thwarted,  as  people  are  who  are  used 
to  having  their  own  way,  and  the  more  so  as  he  knew 
his  proposal  was  as  generous  as  it  was  exceptional ; 
but  he  had  no  doubt  that  Lillo  would  finally  yield, 
because  it  would  be  simply  absurd  for  him  not  to  do 
so.  Nothing  more  was  said  at  the  moment.  When 
the  sketch  was  finished  and  criticised,  and  they  were 
trudging  home  with  the  setting  sun  in  their  eyes, 
Mr.  Barclay  paused  awhile  before  the  little  old  house 
and  said,  — 

"  I  shall  come  over  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Marsh  to-mor- 
row, Lillo." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  as  the  boy  touched 
his  cap,  "  she  will  be  glad  to  see  you  ;  but "  —  He 
hesitated,  and  then  said  frankly,  "  I  hope  you  won't 
ask  me  to  leave  her,  for  I  can't  do  it." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Mr.  Barclay.  "  She  will  be  glad 
to  be  rid  of  you." 

Lillo  laughed. 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  likes  his  wild  life  too  well," 
soliloquized  Mr.  Barclay. 


26  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Now  that  Mr.  Barclay's  whim  had  really  taken 
shape  and  been  put  into  words,  it  became  an  ardent 
desire.  To  develop  the  undoubted  genius  of  this  fish- 
er-lad, to  educate  this  quickly  perceptive  mind,  and 
to  make  a  gentleman  of  Lillo,  had  suddenly  become 
the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart,  unsatisfied  in  its  paren- 
tal aspirations.  He  had  in  all  his  life  encountered 
no  serious  obstacles  to  any  of  his  reasonable  desires, 
and  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  suppose  that 
there  could  be  any  impediment  in  this  case.  The 
boy  must  be  brought  around  to  a  better  sense  of  the 
offer,  and  for  this  purpose  he  sought  the  grand- 
mother. 

It  was  really  very  warm  weather,  and  the  Neck 
was  getting  crowded  for  this  fastidious  man  who  had 
no  great  interest  in  human  beings  en  masse.  He 
longed  now  to  be  on  some  mountain-top,  listening  to 
the  wind  surging  through  the  pines,  watching  the 
purple  shadows  on  the  mighty  peaks,  far  away  from 
these  thin,  penetrating  voices  which  saluted  him 
even  in  the  retirement  of  his  own  apartments.  With 
his  dog,  his  gun,  and  his  book,  he  had  always  found 
peace ;  with  Lillo  added,  there  would  be  less  for  his 
devouring  melancholy  to  prey  upon.    And  who  could 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  27 

tell  what  profound  possibilities  might  be  drawn  from 
the  education  of  this  boy?  Velasquez,  Titian,  Leo- 
nardo, Raphael,  Rubens,  were  the  pride  of  the  Old 
World :  why  should  not  the  New  possess  as  powerful 
creative  force  ? .  He  woke  from  his  dreaming  and 
started  out  for  the  little  brown  house.  Mrs.  Marsh 
was  at  home,  silent  and  alone  as  usual. 

She  responded  to  Mr.  Barclay's  greeting  by  telling 
him  that  Lillo  had  gone  into  town  on  an  errand  very 
early,  but  would  soon  return,  and  that  he  knew  his 
lessons.  Then  she  supposed  she  had  given  all  the 
necessary  information,  and  she  resumed  her  knit- 
ting. 

The  room  was  neat  and  cool,  darkened  by  the  heavy 
wooden  outside  shutters  of  the  windows,  which,  being 
drawn,  the  sun  penetrated  only  at  their  meeting. 

The  old  woman  sat  up  stiffly  in  a  high-backed 
rocking-chair.  Mr.  Barclay  occupied  one  equally 
straight  and  high  backed,  without  rockers. 

"  I  suppose  Lillo  has  told  you  what  I  have  come 
to  talk  about,  Mrs.  Marsh  }  " 

"  No  :  he  hasn't  been  at  any  pranks,  I  hope  }  "  said 
the  old  woman,  with  a  startled  glance  over  her  spec- 
tacles. 

"  No  :  he's  all  right ;  and  I  find  it  so  pleasant  to 
teach  him,  that  I  want  the  pleasure  prolonged." 

Mrs.  Marsh  still  had  a  questioning  manner. 

"  I  may  as  well  put  it  in  as  few  words  as  possible. 
I  want  you  to  give  the  boy  to  me,  that  I  may  make 
something  of  him  ;  I  want  to  send  him  to  school  and 
give  him  advantages  impossible  to  gain  outside  of 
cities.    He  is  so  docile  and  affectionate  that  I  have  no 


28  ASPIRATIONS, 

hesitation  in  making  this  offer.  Lillo  will  make  a 
fine  man.     Will  you  give  him  to  me,  Mrs.  Marsh .?" 

She  looked  incredulous :  was  this  strange  man  in 
earnest,  or  was  he  beside  himself  t 

"  Hain't  you  a  family  of  your  own? "  she  asked. 

"No,  none  very  near  to  me." 

"  What  makes  you  think  he'll  be  a  fine  man  } " 

"There  are  many  proofs  of  it.  I  have  watched 
him  closely  and  with  interest." 

"  Seems  to  me,  then,  he  can  get  along  without 
help." 

This  was  a  new  view.     Mr.  Barclay  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  dare  say;  but  it  will  be  harder  for  him, 
and  he  will  have  to  do  without  the  opportunities  of 
cultivation  and  advancement  which  I  can  give  him. 
The  difference  will  be  that  of  one  who  starts  in 
trade  with  or  without  capital.  I  wish  him  to  have 
the  capital." 

"  There's  no  reason  agin  that,  I'm  sure ;  but  seems 
to  me  you've  made  a  mistake." 

"How.?    Why.?" 

"  Did  you  never  take  a  crab  up  out  of  the  water,  and 
watch  it  wriggle  back  when  you  put  it  on  the  sand  ? " 

"I  don't  know;  I  suppose  I  have." 

"  That's  just  the  way  it  would  be  with  Lillo  if  you 
took  him  away  from  here." 

"  I  am  willing  to  risk  it.** 

"  What  does  he  say  t " 

"  He  would  like  the  plan,  I  think,  if  he  could  be 
assured  that  you  were  willing;  but  he  will  not  con- 
sent to  leave  you  alone.  I  think  I  can  arrange  that, 
however." 


ASPIRATIONS,  29 

"  Does  he  show  that  much  f eelin'  ? " 

"  Yes,  quite ;  it  seems  to  be  the  one  reason  for  his 
remaining  here." 

"  Then  I'll  not  drive  him  off,"  said  the  old  woman 
firmly,  taking  off  her  spectacles  to  wipe  away  the 
moisture  which  had  gathered  upon  them. 

"  But,  Mrs.  Marsh,  you  have  not  given  this  enough 
consideration ;  you  forget  that  if  I  adopt  Lillo  I  shall 
be  in  a  measure  obliged  to  see  that  his  future  is 
assured.  I  have  some  property.  Should  he  prove 
worthy  of  my  trust  in  him,  worthy  and  grateful  for 
the  education  I  propose  to  give  him,  he  will  stand  a 
good  chance  of  being  better  off  in  a  pecuniary  sense." 

"  Pecuniary  sense :  "  the  old  woman  said  the  words 
over  to  herself,  but  made  nothing  of  them.  "  Prop- 
erty : "  yes,  she  understood  that. 

"  It's  well  to  have  property.  So  you're  a  man  of 
means,  eh ! " 

**Yes." 

"  But  I  don't  think  so  much  of  the  eddication  :  it's 
apt  to  spoil  poor  boys." 

Mr.  Barclay  smiled  loftily,  and  glanced  at  the 
sanded  floor. 

"  Yes,  it's  apt  to  spoil  'em  and  make  'em  look 
down  on  their  parents.  There  was  Jim  Macy :  he 
went  away  to  school,  and  it  was  the  ruination  of  him ; 
they  never  could  do  nothin'  with  him  after  that. 
He  scorned  bein'  a  Cape  Cod  fisherman,  and  I  don't 
quite  know  whatever  became  of  him.  He  had  an 
uncle  who  did  for  him  just  what  you  want  to  do  for 
Lillo ;  and  the  uncle  was  master  of  a  fine  coastin' 
schooner,  which  went  ashore  off  Nantucket,  and  he 


30  ASPIRATIONS. 

was  drowned.  You're  very  kind,  Mr.  Barclay,  but  I 
guess  Lillo'll  stay  with  me.'* 

Was  there  ever  so  persistent  an  absurdity  1 

Mr.  Barclay  rose  impatiently  and  looked  at  the 
clock.     There  was  no  use  in  arguing. 

"  Take  a  little  time  to  think  of  this,  Mrs.  Marsh. 
Tell  Lillo  he'll  find  me  at  my  rooms.  I'm  going  for 
a  swim  now." 

But  at  this  moment  in  came  Lillo  with  a  basket 
on  his  arm. 

"  How  dark  it  seems,  and  how  cool  in  here  !  there 
is  such  a  glare  on  the  sand,  and  those  old  beach- 
wagons  creep  like  snails.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Barclay  t 
You  and  granny  seem  to  be  waiting  for  something." 

**  We  were  talking  about  you." 

Mr.  Barclay,  who  had  sat  down  again,  felt  the  dis- 
advantage of  a  chair  without  rockers.  Mrs.  Marsh 
was  quietly  moving  back  and  forth  in  hers,  knitting 
fast  all  the  while.  He  waited  till  Lillo  had  put  away 
his  basket  and  was  prepared  to  listen. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Mrs.  Marsh  what  I  told  you 
yesterday,  Lillo,  how  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  start 
in  the  world." 

"  It's  all  very  kind,  Mr.  Barclay ;  but  my  start's 
got  to  be  taken  here.  I've  engaged  with  Mr.  Smears, 
granny,  to  learn  house-painting." 

"  Lillo  ! " 

"Yes,  I  knew  your  heart  was  set  on  it,  and  I 
might  as  well  begin  whether  I  liked  it  or  not.  Mr. 
Smears  is  to  take  me  for  three  months  on  trial.  It'll 
be  a  good  trudge  from  here  to  Codtown  every  day." 

Mr.  Barclay  said  nothing ;  he  was  indignant  and 


ASPIRATIONS.  31 

hurt,  and  amazed  that  their  ignorance  could  so  thwart 
his  well-intentioned  plans,  and  do  violence  to  their 
own  prosperity.  He  drummed  a  tattoo  on  the  pine 
table  and  was  silent. 

Lillo  looked  up  appealingly. 

*'  You  see,  Mr.  Barclay,  I  had  planned  what  I  was 
to  do  before  you  spoke.  I  didn't  want  to  learn  a 
trade,  and  I  don't  want  to  now ;  but  granny  has  been 
at  me  to  do  it  for  a  long  while,  and  now  she's  alone, 
I  must  try  to  please  her ;  and  this  is  what  came  into 
my  head  to-day  when  she  sent  me  to  town  to  buy 
flour,  and  I  met  Mr.  Smears  and  he  began  to  talk 
about  it  too.  Granny  was  my  first  friend,  Mr.  Bar- 
clay ;  but  you  come  next,  and  I  hope  you  will  believe 
I  am  grateful." 

"There's  nothing  to  be  grateful  for.  You  won't 
let  me  help  you,  so  there's  the  end  of  it.  Come,  I 
have  only  a  day  or  two,  so  I  must  be  off,  and  make 
the  most  of  my  time.  I  want  to  row  over  to  Seal 
Island  after  I've  had  a  bath ;  the  luncheon  is  already 
stowed,  so  you  can  get  the  boat  ready.  Good-morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Marsh,  and  good-bye.  I  shall  not  see  you 
again,  as  I  leave  on  Thursday.  I  must  thank  you 
for  allowing  Lillo  to  be  so  much  with  me.  We  have 
had  very  good  times  together." 

"No  obligation  to  me,  sir,  none  at  all.  The  boy 
has  been  happy  in  your  company,  and  will  miss  you. 
I  hope  you're  not  offended ;  but,  in  truth,  I  couldn't 
spare  him,  and  he's  full  enough  of  nonsense  without 
eddication.  You  know  the  man  in  the  Scripters 
whose  learnin'  had  made  him  mad.  I'm  afraid  it 
would  have  done  that  to  Lillo." 


32  ASPIRATIONS. 

She  had  risen,  and  was  standing  as  stiffly  erect  as 
she  had  been  sitting. 

"  Possibly,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  smiling  grimly  as  he 
glanced  at  the  bare,  clean  little  room,  with  its  shin- 
ing tins,  its  sanded  floor,  and  few  comforts. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Marsh:  if  he  has 
any  thing  in  him,  he  will  make  his  way  in  the  world 
yet,  and  no  thanks  to  me  either." 

And  so  he  departed.  But  he  was  very  much  vexed. 
So  much  vexed  was  he  that  he  did  not  at  all  notice 
the  change  which  had  come  over  the  day,  the  shifting 
of  the  wind,  or  the  obscuration  of  the  sun ;  neither 
did  he  notice  how  Lillo,  as  he  dipped  his  oars,  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  at  an  ominous  gathering  of  the 
clouds.  Lillo  saw  that  Mr.  Barclay  was  angry,  and 
knew  that  silence  must  be  maintained ;  indeed,  the 
boy  had  no  wish  to  talk.  Though  he  had  forced  him- 
self into  this  antagonistic  attitude  towards  his  patron, 
he  had  not  even  the  ordinary  consolation  with  which 
those  who  have  their  own  way  solace  themselves. 
He  was  not  having  his  own  way.  He  was  doing  that 
which  displeased  himself  as  much  as  it  did  Mr.  Bar- 
clay, but  he  was  acting  from  a  higher  motive  than 
self-pleasing.  The  boy  loved  this  wan,  weather- 
beaten,  rough  old  grandmother ;  and  in  the  refusal  of 
Mr.  Barclay,  and  the  acceptance  of  Mr.  Smears,  he 
knew  he  should  please  her. 

So  they  rowed  in  silence  in  the  direction  of  Seal 
Island ;  for  though  Mr.  Barclay  had  forgotten  his  bath, 
he  had  not  forgotten  his  intention  of  taking  his  lun- 
cheon beyond  the  gaze  of  sight-seers. 

Yet  even  in  this  was  he  thwarted.     As  the  boat 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  33 

bumped  on  the  rocks,  and  Lillo  sprang  lightly  out  to 
moor  her,  he  saw  a  flutter  of  white  skirts,  and  two 
girls  retreated  behind  the  few  cedar  trees  and  huckle- 
berry bushes  which  were  about  all  the  vegetation  the 
island  could  boast. 

Something  very  like  "Confound  it !  "  escaped  from 
Mr.  Barclay.  "  Not  alone  even  here.  Well,  perhaps 
they  will  have  the  good  sense  to  stay  out  of  our  way. 
Get  out  the  traps,  Lillo,  and  we  will  remain  where 
we  are,  it's  too  late  to  go  farther ; "  and  Mr.  Barclay 
drew  a  book  from  his  pocket,  spread  his  army  blanket 
under  a  sheltering  rock,  and  began  to  read.  Lillo 
secured  the  boat,  landed  the  provisions,  and,  with  an 
eye  to  the  weather,  unrolled  Mr.  Barclay's  rubber 
coat ;  then  with  customary  habit  in  idle  moments, 
and  now  as  a  resource  from  the  discomfort  of  his 
friend's  displeasure,  he  sharpened  his  pencil  and 
sketched.  His  knees  were  his  easel,  and  his  canvas 
an  old  account-book ;  but  a  fallen  pine,  some  grasses 
and  cat-tails  in  proximity,  and  a  scraggy  mass  of 
weeds  were  grouping  themselves  almost  of  themselves 
on  his  page  when  something  of  greater  loveliness 
caught  his  quick  eye.  It  was  the  face  of  a  young  girl, 
a  child  of  his  own  age,  peering  at  him  from  the  thicket. 
Her  figure  was  hidden,  and  her  soft  gray-blue  eyes, 
shadowed  by  chestnut  hair,  seemed  to  belong  to  some 
creature  of  the  woods.  When  she  saw  that  she  was 
discovered,  she  drew  a  branch  across  her  place  of  re- 
treat and  hid  herself ;  but  a  low  grumble  of  thunder 
coming  at  this  moment,  she  sprang  from  the  trees 
towards  Lillo,  exclaiming,  — 

"  What  shall  we  do,  what  shall  we  do }    It  is  going 


34  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

to  storm,  and  how  can  we  get  home  ?  "  Then  paus- 
ing, and  swinging  her  hat  in  her  hand,  with  a  blending 
of  fright,  curiosity,  and  timidity  she  said,  — 

"  Please  let  me  look  at  your  sketch.  I  wish  I 
could  draw,  but  I  can't.  I  can  only  drum  on  the 
piano,  and  that  has  to  be  done  indoors  ;  and  it  is  stupid 
to  stay  in  the  house  in  summer-time,  don't  you  think 
so } " 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  replied  Lillo  bashfully,  as  the 
child  drew  nearer,  and  her  soft  breath,  like  the  odor 
of  violets,  came  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  how  pretty  that  is!"  she  went  on.  "You 
draw  beautifully,  better  than  Grace.  Grace  is  my  sis- 
ter. There  she  is  trying  to  hide.  But  what  shall 
we  do  }  We  never  rowed  so  far  before,  and  we  are 
frightened  half  to  death  in  thunder-storms,  at  least 
Grace  is.  What  a  cross-looking  man  that  is  under 
the  rock !     Is  he  any  relation  of  yours  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Lillo,  smiling. 

Mr.  Barclay  at  this  moment  turned  and  certainly 
scowled.  He  had  been  aroused  by  the  thunder,  and 
was  now  considering  whether  it  would  be  possible  to 
get  to  a  place  of  shelter  before  the  rain  came ;  then 
he  heard  the  pretty,  childish  treble,  and  saw  Lillo's 
companion.  At  the  same  time  another  young  girl 
appeared,  with  a  very  alarmed  countenance ;  but  she 
went  boldly  up  to  Mr.  Barclay,  saying,  — 

"  I  think  this  is  Mr.  Barclay.  I  am  Grace  Alden. 
My  aunt,  Miss  Alden,  is  a  friend  of  yours,  sir,  I  be- 
lieve." 

Mr.  Barclay  rose  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Miss  Alden." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  35 

"  I  am  so  distressed  !  We  have  disobeyed  aunt  in 
coming  so  far  alone,  and  now  I  dare  not  go  back. 
What  shall  we  do,  sir  ?  —  Here,  Pinky,  come  speak  to 
this  friend  of  aunt's." 

"  I  am  not  *  Pinky '  to  strangers,  Grace,"  said  the 
other  child,  blushing,  but  coming  forward.  "  Besides, 
it's  raining  ;  and  if  you're  going  to  stand  still  I  shall 
go  back  to  the  woods." 

"  Present  me  properly  to  your  sister,  I  beg,"  said 
Mr.  Barclay,  amused,  though  he  felt  the  rain  on  his 
nose. 

"Miss  May  Alden,  Mr.  Barclay,"  said  the  other 
girl,  putting  up  her  sun-umbrella,  but  Miss  May  was 
already  scampering  away.  Meantime,  Lillo  had  closed 
his  sketch-book  and  had  begun  cutting  down  branch- 
es to  pile  over  the  rocks,  beneath  which  they  could 
crouch  for  a  while.  On  this  he  spread  the  rubber 
cloth  which  was  always  in  the  boat ;  and  by  the  time 
Grace  had  brought  back  her  sister,  and  Mr.  Barclay 
had  donned  his  rubber  coat,  the  girls  had  quite  a 
comfortable  shelter  ready  for  them.  It  was  now 
pouring,  and  the  sea  dashing  up  on  the  rocks,  the 
thunder  pealing,  and  the  air  dark  with  the  driving 
rain.  Lillo,  drenched  to  the  skin,  had  hauled  the 
boat  far  enough  up  to  turn  her,  thus  covering  the 
lunch-basket. 

Mr.  Barclay  stood  grimly  beside  the  rocks  beneath 
which  the  girls  sat,  dry  and  untouched. 

"Look  at  him,"  whispered  May,  "isn't  he  ugly  .^ 
Just  like  a  fountain  in  our  square  when  it's  covered 
with  dried  leaves  in  the  autumn.  Is  it  a  Dryad  or  a 
Naiad,  or  a  what  do  you  call  it,  Grace  ? " 


36  ASPIRATIONS. 

"Hush!"  said  Grace  peremptorily,  "he  has  been 
very  kind  to  us." 

"  I  am  so  hungry,  Grace,  it  makes  me  cross,  —  and 
what  will  aunt  say  ?  She'll  be  worried  and  distracted. 
Perhaps  her  hair  will  turn  white,  and  then  always  we 
shall  hear  her  tell  the  story  of  it,  —  how  we  ran  away 
and  rowed  out  to  sea,  and  she  supposed  us  to  be 
drowned,  and  the  agony  made  her  hair  turn  gray. 
Age  will  never  be  the  cause,  —  as  if  it  weren't  gray 
already.  Oh,  dear,  when  will  it  stop  raining.? 
Where's  that  boy }  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  beau- 
tifully he  sketches !  He  must  be  what  aunt  calls  a 
genius." 

"  I  wish  you  had  the  genius  for  keeping  still,"  said 
her  sister  impatiently. 

"Ah,  two  in  a  family  can't  have  that.  Come, 
Grace,  let's  just  peek  out  a  little.  I  do  believe  I  see 
a  little  blue  sky.  There  goes  the  fountain  !  Come, 
I  don't  care  if  I  do  get  a  little  wet,  now  that  he  has 
gone,"  and  she  thrust  her  feet  out  into  a  pool. 
"  Lovely  for  ducks  !  " 

"  Come  directly  back,  May,  or  I  shall  certainly  ap- 
peal to  Mr.  Barclay." 

"  There  he  comes  again  !  " 

"The  rain  is  stopping,  young  ladies,  but  I  am 
afraid  there  will  be  a  succession  of  showers,"  said 
Mr.  Barclay.  "  If  you  can  tell  me  where  to  find  your 
boat,  I  think  we  had  better  start  for  home." 

Grace  directed  him  where  to  look  for  the  boat ;  but 
Lillo,  coming  up  at  this  moment,  reported,  — 

"  It's  breaking  loose,  and  drifting  out  to  sea." 

This  was  a  serious  matter,  and  the  children  looked 
aghast. 


ASPIRA  TLONS.  37 

"What  if  aunt  should  hear  of  that  before  we  reach 
home  !  Oh,  please,  Mr.  Barclay,  get  us  home  as 
quickly  as  you  can!"  exclaimed  Grace.  "I  really  am 
very  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble.  We  have 
been  very  foolish,  but  we  can't  help  ourselves  now ; " 
and  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  our  starting,  Lillo  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Barclay. 

"  It's  an  ugly  sea,  sir,  but  "  — 

"  Oh,  let  us  go  ! "  exclaimed  both  the  girls.  "  We 
are  not  afraid." 

*'  Neither  am  I,"  said  Lillo  stoutly,  "but  "  — 

"  Oh,  please  go !  "  chimed  the  girls. 

"We  will  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  and  Lillo  turned 
to  obey  orders.  He  knew  Mr.  Barclay  was  not  strong, 
so  the  brunt  of  the  labor  would  be  his.  He  would 
do  his  best ;  and,  if  the  wind  went  down,  there  was 
nothing  to  fear.  But  what  if  the  wind  rose,  could 
he  pull  the  increased  load  to  shore.? 

The  girls  were  now  in  feverish  haste  to  be  off. 
Mr.  Barclay,  however,  insisted  upon  their  taking  some 
lunch,  which,  hungry  as  they  had  been,  they  could 
now  scarcely  swallow.  This  done,  they  quickly 
embarked.  For  a  while  all  went  well.  The  water 
was  rough,  but  the  swell  was  exhilarating.  Suddenly 
the  wind  veered,  and  they  were  in  an  ugly,  cross  sea. 
Grace,  in  her  fright,  seized  Mr.  Barclay's  arm ;  the 
boat  lurched,  he  lost  his  oar,  the  sea  poured  in  upon 
them.     The  rain  came  driving  down  again. 

"  We  must  go  back,"  shouted  Mr.  Barclay.  Lillo 
tried  to  turn  the  boat,  but  could  not,  and  the  rain 
blinded  him. 


38  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

The  girls  huddled  in  the  stern  together,  like  two 
frightened  doves,  white,  and  with  much  dripping 
plumage.  Mr.  Barclay  became  seasick,  and  grew 
absolutely  unable  to  conquer  his  deathly  faintness. 
Lillo  looked  up  at  the  clouds :  not  a  glint  of  bright- 
ness was  there  to  encourage  him.  The  wind  was, 
however,  getting  around  to  the  south,  he  thought : 
so,  drawing  in  his  oars,  he  began  to  bail  out.  They 
could  wait  a  while.  Mr.  Barclay  wrote  himself  down 
a  fool  for  his  attempt.  They  should  have  waited  on 
the  island.  How  could  he  have  allowed  himself  to  be 
led  into  such  a  scrape  by  two  silly  chits !  What  would 
that  aunt  of  theirs  think  of  him }  But  that  was  a 
small  matter,  so  long  as  they  were  not  drowned. 
Ugh  !  that  horrible  faintness. 

"  Lillo ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"  Get  back  to  the  island." 

"  Can't  see  it,  sir." 

"  We  are  floating  out  to  sea ;  I  hear  the  breakers." 

"  I  think  not,  sir." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Isn't  there  a  line  of  rocks  just 
about  here } " 

"  No,  sir.     Hello  !  there's  the  lost  boat." 

Mr.  Barclay  saw  it  too,  and  eagerly  reached  out  to 
grasp  it,  more  to  supply  himself  with  an  oar  than 
because  he  cared  to  save  the  boat.  As  he  did  so,  the 
deathly  sickness  seized  him  :  he  must  have  fainted, 
for  he  lost  his  balance,  and  went  over. 

There  was  an  instant  of  horror,  of  indecision.  The 
girls  shrieked,  and  clung  closer  to  each  other.  The 
waters  seemed  to  have  opened  like  a  hungry  mouth. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  39 

and  closed  again.  Lillo  threw  off  all  the  clothing  he 
could  loosen,  and  pausing  only  to  see  in  what  direc- 
tion he  should  go,  plunged  after  his  friend.  Mr. 
Barclay  rose  a  boat's-length  away.  He  was  no  prac- 
tised swimmer,  but  he  knew  enough  not  to  struggle ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  Lillo  had  him  by  the  hair,  and 
was  towing  him. 

By  this  time,  the  boats  were  drifting  from  them  ; 
but,  as  they  rose  on  the  swelling  foam,  they  saw  little 
May  scramble  into  the  bow  of  the  *•  Water-witch," 
seize  an  oar,  and  manage  to  keep  her  with  her  head 
towards  them.    Grace  sat  with  clasped  hands,  crying. 

At  last  the  distance  lessened.  Each  wave  carried 
them  nearer,  and  with  supreme  satisfaction  Lillo  and 
Mr.  Barclay  tugged  each  other  into  the  safe-keeping 
of  the  boats. 

Just  as  they  did  so,  a  warm,  broad  flash  of  sunlight 
penetrated  the  driving  spray,  and  they  saw  land  : 
but,  what  was  better,  a  stout  craft  coming  to  meet 
them.  With  what  cordial  appreciation  of  dry  land 
Mr.  Barclay  stepped  ashore  that  day,  it  is  needless 
to  mention. 

Drenched  and  draggled  and  ill,  he  managed  to 
restore  his  transient  wards  to  their  tearful  relative ; 
and  then  seeking  Lillo,  he  said,  — 

"  You've  saved  my  life,  boy.  Do  you  know  the 
obligation  I  am  under  } " 

"  Indeed  I  don't,  sir.  It  was  an  accident.  I  hope 
you'll  be  none  the  worse  for  it." 

"And  you.?" 

**  I  mind  it  no  more  than  a  water-rat,"  said  Lillo, 
shaking  himself. 


40  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

.  "  I  consider  myself  very  much  in  your  debt,  re- 
member." 

"  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Barclay.  I'm  only  too  glad  to 
have  been  of  use  to  you.  We  are  friends  again,  I 
hope." 

"  Yes,  we  are  friends,"  said  Mr.  Barclay.  But  he 
did  not  again  urge  his  proposal. 

The  next  day,  instead  of  leaving  the  Neck,  he 
found  himself  too  ill  to  leave  his  bed. 

Miss  Alden  was  profuse  in  attentions,  and  Grace 
and  May  made  daily  inquiries  concerning  him ;  but  a 
doctor  and  nurse  from  Boston  forbade  his  departure 
until  late  in  the  summer. 


ASFIRA  TIONS.  41 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  fourth  floor  of  a  New  York  second-rate  board- 
ing-house is  not  especially  to  be  chosen  as  an  abiding 
place  when  June  is  bursting  her  roses  and  scattering 
perfume  on  the  air.  Birds  do  not  tilt  on  the  window- 
sills  and  sing  to  the  unhappy  prisoners,  neither  do 
daisies  beckon  to  the  fields  of  clothes-lines  below ;  but 
the  rumble  and  roar  of  the  city's  chant  of  toil  fill  the 
air,  already  heavy  with  sewer-gas  and  petroleum. 

No  one  could  have  been  more  conscious  of  these 
things,  nor  felt  himself  more  a  prisoner,  than  the  per- 
son who  at  this  moment  is  listening  to  a  distant 
hand-organ,  and  seeking  for  a  glimpse  of  sky  above 
the  barren  ugliness  of  bricks  which  obscure  his  sight. 
He  is  a  man  yet  young,  as  you  can  see  by  his  beard 
and  hair,  which,  though  unkempt,  are  of  fine  color; 
but  he  is  a  man  whose  experiences  have  aged  him. 
He  has  been  unsuccessful,  has  invariably  lost  when 
others  won,  stumbled  and  fallen  where  others  kept 
the  path  ;  has  been  baflded,  pursued,  defeated,  in  the 
battle  all  have  to  fight.  He  had  begun  fairly,  as 
well  as  nine-tenths  do,  with  high  hopes,  good  cour- 
age, and  no  vices,  but  had  neither  satisfied  himself 
nor  other  people.  Undoubtedly  there  was  a  screw 
loose  somewhere,  perhaps  in  the  original  construe- 


42  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

tion  of  the  article ;  the  nice  mechanism  had  proba- 
bly been  too  nice  for  its  applied  purpose,  and  when 
overworked  or  rusty  no  one  had  been  sufficiently  in- 
terested to  lubricate  it.  It  has  now  given  token  of 
stopping  altogether.  With  the  ceasing  of  the  strug- 
gle has  come  a  certain  calmness  which  might  easily 
be  mistaken  for  peace  ;  perhaps  it  is  peace  m  an  im- 
perfect form,  the  perfection  being  attainable  only  in 
another  world.  At  all  events,  this  man  has  ceased 
repining,  ceased  wishing  for  himself;  but  he  has  one 
tender  plant  for  whose  blossoming  he  craves  the  sun- 
shine and  the  dew  of  heaven. 

"  Ruth ! " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  Where  shall  we  go  this  summer }  " 

The  girl  looks  up  with  startled  eyes  from  her  sew- 
ing. It  is  a  piece  of  very  plain  sewing,  — no  filoselle 
and  canvas  with  sprays  of  lilies  or  meadow-sweet ;  but 
her  fingers  are  lithe  and  active,  and  her  needle  flits 
quickly  in  and  out  of  the  under-garment.  She  is 
very  young,  very  small,  and  very  like  her  father. 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  she  responds  ;  "  I  am  afraid 
you  are  not  strong  enough  for  a  journey." 

"Very  likely !  we  may  have  to  go  different  ways  ; 
but  where  should _;^^2/  like  to  go.?" 

"  Nowhere  without  you,  father." 

"Not  to  some  cool,  shady,  old  farmhouse,  where 
the  elm-trees  make  a  bower  overhead,  and  the  robins 
chatter  among  the  cherries?" 

"  No,  father." 

"  Nor  to  the  hard  sandy  beach,  where  wave  upon 
wave  comes  rolling  up  in  foam,  and  you  could  gather 
shells  and  seaweed  } " 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  43 

"No,  father." 

"  Nor  to  the  hills  overlooking  the  valleys,  where 
the  wind  sighs  in  the  tall  pines,  and  its  breath  is  the 
very  elixir  of  life  ?  " 

"  Nowhere  without  you,  father." 

"Come  here,  Ruth." 

She  goes  to  him,  and  he  draws  her  down  upon  his 
lap. 

"  You  are  a  very  little  girl  to  be  left  alone  in  the 
world." 

She  buries  her  face  in  his  coat. 

"  If  you  cry,  I  can't  talk  to  you." 

"I  will  stop,  father."  And  up  comes  the  brave  little 
head ;  and  she  bites  her  lips  and  swallows  her  sobs 
with  an  effort,  which,  after  a  while,  becomes  success- 
ful. 

"  I  can't  take  you  where  I  am  going,  Ruth, —  I  wish 
I  could,  —  and  I  have  no  one  with  whom  to  leave  you. 
All  my  relations  are  too  poor,  they  have  just  as  much 
as  th^  can  do  to  take  care  of  themselves ;  and  your 
mother's  friends  are  all  too  rich  and  taken  up  with 
their  own  affairs  to  be  bothered  about  a  little  waif 
like  you.  I  used  to  visit  at  their  houses,  dance  at 
their  parties,  and  dine  at  their  tables ;  and  I  know 
just  how  your  poor  little  heart  would  ache  to  be  a 
dependent  among  any  of  them.  They  are  not  wicked, 
but  they  are  cold  and  selfish  and  narrow ;  and  you 
would  have  to  hear  your  father  spoken  of  as  an  un- 
lucky dog,  who  ought  not  to  have  married  his  pretty 
wife  and  let  her  die  for  want  of  comforts  and  luxuries 
which  he  could  not  supply,  nor  left  his  little  Ruth 
to   their   charity.     Ah,  yes,  child  !   I   know  how  it 


44  ASPIRATIONS, 

would  be.  No,  I  am  not  angry.  I  am  not  cross.  I 
am  just  telling  you  all  this  because  when  you  grow 
up  you  will  have  to  know  it  all,  and  rather  than  let 
you  go  to  them  I  would  put  you  in  the  orphan  asy- 
lum;  but —  There,  there,  Ruth!  I  know  some  one 
who  I  think  will  be  good  to  my  little  girl  and  take 
care  of  her ;  some  one  who  has  always  been  good 
to  me,  and  would  have  bridged  me  over  many  a  diffi- 
culty if  I  had  let  him  know  my  trouble.  Ah !  we 
were  chums  long  years  ago,  —  friends  always,  in 
school  and  out  of  school.  He  always  beat  me  at 
every  thing.  I  was  always  unlucky,  but  he  never 
crowed  over  me.  He  has  had  his  griefs  as  well  as  I 
mine,  but  they  haven't  put  an  end  to  him  as  mine 
have  to  me.  He  has  a  kind  heart,  and  can  be  trusted 
with  my  one  poor  lamb.  I  will  write  to  him  and  tell 
him  all  about  little  Ruth,  and  he  will  come  and  get 
her ;  and  then  I  can  go  as  soon  as  I  please,  —yes,  just 
as  soon  as  I  please." 

Here  the  poor  man  had  a  wretched  coughing  turn, 
which  made  talking  quite  impossible,  and  little  Ruth 
had  to  get  his  spoonful  of  sirup,  and  shake  up  his 
pillows  ;  and  then  she  ran  down-stairs  for  the  toast, 
which  might  be  burned  by  the  careless  cook  if  she 
did  not  attend  to  it. 

She  was  quite  breathless  when  she  came  back,  and 
found  her  father  at  his  table  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper 
before  him. 

"  I  am  only  afraid,  Ruth,  that  I  can*t  go  as  soon 
as  I  ought  to  on  your  account." 

"  Where,  father } "  said  the  child  innocently. 

"  Oh  !  away,  —  altogether.  I  am  stronger  than  I 
thought." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  45 

*'  How  glad  I  am,  dear  father !  " 

"  You  shouldn't  be,  Ruth  ;  it  is  very  wrong  of  me 
to  keep  you  here  in  the  hot  city,  pent  up  in  this  room. 
You  look  pale ;  you  need  fresh  air.  Put  on  your 
bonnet  and  go  to  the  square,  and  you  may  post  my 
letter  at  the  same  time.  I  can't  write  a  very  long 
one.     There,  run  off  now." 

"  But  the  toast,  father ;  please  eat  it.** 

"Well,  just  to  please  you,  dear;  but  I  oughtn't 
to,"  he  murmured.  "  It's  an  injustice  to  her  to  keep 
the  fire  going,  and  just  so  much  fuel  wasted.  But 
there's  the  trouble,  I  can't  hurry  matters ; "  and  lay- 
ing his  pen  down  he  felt  his  pulse,  with  his  watch 
before  him. 

"Pretty  rapid,  weak,  too,  goes  by  jerks;  it  can't 
keep  up  much  longer,  I  should  think.  I'd  like  to  get 
the  answer  to  this  letter;  just  my  luck,  however,  if  I 
don't.  The  parson  says  I  mustn't  call  it  luck ;  but 
that's  a  bad  habit  of  mine.  I  know  better.  I  know 
it's  God's  will." 

Here  Ruth  came  back,  with  a  brown  straw  hat 
shading  her  violet  eyes. 

"I  am  ready,  father." 

"All  right,  little  wren." 

The  scratching  pen  and  the  hacking  cough  kept 
up  a  duet. 

At  last  the  letter  was  finished,  signed,  sealed,  and 
stamped.  The  father  drew  his  little  girl  to  him  with 
a  kiss. 

"  You  are  just  the  best  and  bravest  little  daughter 
in  the  world." 

"  And  you  are  the  dearest  and  sweetest  father." 


46  ASPIRATIONS. 

With  that  she  tripped  off  to  mail  his  letter,  glad  to 
get  out  even  into  the  dry  and  dusty  streets. 

He  walked  to  his  bookshelf,  reached  too  far  for  a 
volume,  the  strain  started  his  cough  again.  A  bright 
red  stream  bubbled  up  and  over  his  lips.  He  sank 
into  the  nearest  chair.  "Sooner  than  I  thought," 
he  said  to  himself ;  and  then,  though  fainting  and  the 
darkness  of  the  lonely  valley  shutting  out  the  day- 
light, his  thoughts  were  for  his  little  one.  "God 
keep  her !  God  in  his  mercy  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb." 


ASPIRATIONS.  47 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  letter  sped  on  its  way,  its  life  and  force  con- 
tinuing long  after  the  hand  which  winged  it  was  lying 
lifeless  on  the  still  heart.  It  reached  the  Neck  soon 
after  Mr.  Barclay  had  been  pronounced  convalescent, 
and  was  allowed  to  have  visitors.  On  the  day  of  its 
arrival,  Mr.  Barclay  was  sitting  at  a  window  looking 
seaward.  In  front  of  him  was  a  table  with  a  bowl  of 
ice,  a  bottle  of  claret,  a  heap  of  new  publications  fresh 
from  the  press,  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  a  Boston 
hot-house,  a  sketch  of  a  trim  little  yacht,  on  a  rustic 
easel,  and  a  tonic  or  two  bearing  broad  labels  of  their 
virtues  with  magnanimous  publicity  on  their  fronts. 

Beside  him  sat  Miss  Alden,  crocheting. 

Miss  Alden  is  a  person  with  a  talent  for  other 
people's  affairs,  having  few  of  her  own.  The  talent 
takes  a  kindly  form  with  her,  for  she  is  generous, 
warm-hearted,  and  fond  of  making  all  around  her 
comfortable.  She  is  a  slender  lady,  of  an  unknown 
age,  with  a  prepossessing  countenance ;  her  hair  is 
tinged  with  gray ;  and  she  assumes  a  style  of  dress, 
which,  though  rich  in  material,  is  severely  simple  in 
form.  She  disdains  marriage  as  a  state  of  life  suit- 
able only  for  the  very  young  and  frivolous.  Her 
charge  of  her  two  young  nieces  gives  her  ample  occu- 


48  ASPIRATIONS, 

cupation  of  a  sort  she  enjoys,  and  the  chance  of  min- 
istering to  her  invalid  friend,  Mr.  Barclay,  is  also  a 
piece  of  good  fortune  which  she  is  making  the  most 
of.  She  sent  for  the  hot-house  flowers,  and  one  of 
the  tonics  is  a  draught  which  she  has  never  known 
to  fail.  She  has  great  faith  in  herself  and  in  all  her 
prescriptions,  and  it  imparts  a  happy  placidity  of  de- 
meanor and  a  certain  force  to  all  she  says  and  does. 
People  confide  in  her  and  believe  in  her  —  unless,  as 
is  sometimes  the  case,  she  makes  a  mistake  and  prof- 
fers her  services  in  the  wrong  direction.  For  all  peo- 
ple are  not  equally  ready  to  be  taken  under  her  wing. 
Mr.  Barclay  is  not  wholly  reduced  to  proper  sub- 
jection. She  knew  his  wife, — for  Miss  Alden  was  a 
woman  grown  when  Mrs.  Barclay  was  a  schoolgirl, — 
and  she  speaks  of  her  once  in  a  while  in  a  way  that 
is  not  unpleasant  to  him,  in  a  refined,  gentle  way,  as 
if  Belle  were  still  living,  which  makes  him  more 
ready  to  accept  her  kind  services  than  he  otherwise 
would  be.  Though  outwardly  placid,  Miss  Alden  is 
restless ;  she  likes  to  scheme  and  plan,  likes  to  travel. 
When  she  is  at  home  she  often  changes  her  hotel, 
or  at  the  hotel  changes  her  apartments.  In  this 
way  she  also  occasionally  errs,  for  her  movements 
sometimes  disturb  other  people.  But  her  manners 
are  unexceptionable,  and  often  carry  her  over  rough 
spots  where  awkwardness  might  bring  her  to  grief. 
Few  persons  can  resist  kindness;  even  the  grim 
old  uncles  with  lots  of  stocks  and  money-bags  (in 
novels)  always  have  a  tender  spot  which  can  be 
touched  beneath  the  hard  crust  of  their  ungracious 
exterior. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  49 

The  day  is  very  warm ;  and  as  the  man  with  the 
mail  comes  in  Miss  Alden  puts  aside  her  crochet,  and 
gently  stirs  a  large  feather  fan,  sending  the  odor  of 
roses  about  the  room. 

"  Pardon  me  for  opening  my  letters,"  Mr.  Barclay 
says,  with  a  little  inclination  of  the  head,  somewhat 
hoping  that  his  guest  may  go. 

"  Certainly,  Frank "  (she  always  calls  him  by  his 
Christian  name),  *'  certainly.  I  will  read  my  own  at 
the  same  time."  She  has  quite  a  budget  of  crested 
and  monogrammed  envelopes  in  her  lap,  and  is  soon 
absorbed  in  their  contents.  It  takes  her  a  long  while ; 
and  when  she  ceases  she  looks  up  with  a  little  start, 
to  see  Mr.  Barclay  surveying  an  open  newspaper  and 
comparing  its  date  with  that  of  a  blue  ruled  letter- 
sheet  before  him.  He  looks  pale  and  distressed. 
She  rises,  pours  out  in  a  little  glass  the  strengthening 
liquid  on  the  table,  and  says  gently,  — 

*'  You  had  better  lie  down  now,  Frank ;  you  seem 
tired.  Your  nurse  is  out  too  long;  I  must  speak  to 
him." 

"  Pray  don't.  Miss  Alden  :  it  bores  me  to  death  to 
have  him  here  all  the  time."  Then  he  takes  the 
draught  from  her  hand,  and  says,  "  Read  that,  if  you 
please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  in  the 
matter,  situated  as  I  am  now." 

She  reads  the  letter,  which  runs  thus :  — 

Dear  Frank,  —  The  memory  of  school-days  and  college- 
days,  and  many  a  happy  time,  suggests  to  me  the  idea  of  making 
you  my  legatee.  I  am  very  rich  —  in  one  little  girl.  This  large 
fortune  I  bequeath  to  you.  Be  good  to  her,  be  kind  to  her.  I 
am  too  near  the  end  of  my  rope  to  explain  matters.     She  is  to 


50  ASPIRATIONS. 

be  found  at  my  present  address.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  that 
you  will  accept  the  trust,  but,  '•'■  post  factum^  nullum  consiliujn.^^ 
I  have  no  time  to  spare.     Yours  in  the  grasp  of  death. 

RICHARD   MORRIS. 

"  What  a  strange  letter ! " 

**He  was  always  a  strange  fellow,  poor  Dick! 
And  here's  his  death  already  announced." 

Miss  Alden  took  the  newspaper,  and  read  the 
announcement. 

"  And  you  know  nothing  more  than  this  letter  tells 
you.?" 

"  Nothing.     I  haven't  seen  him  for  years." 

**  He  has  taken  a  great  liberty." 

"  None  too  great  for  the  occasion,  if  the  child  has 
no  protector." 

"  But  so  unconventional." 

"He  was  always  that.'* 

"  It  is  very  strange." 

"  It  is  indeed.  If  I  were  not  so  helpless  just  now, 
I  would  go  on  to  New  York." 

"  Has  he  no  relatives  } " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know." 

"  But  they  are  in  duty  bound  to  see  to  the  child  ? " 

"  Not  unless  I  declare  myself  disinclined  to  serve 
as  guardian  ;  besides,  people  are  not  always  ready  to 
do  their  duty." 

"  Has  he  property } " 

"I  fancy  not.  I  have  lost  track  of  him  lately. 
We  studied  law  together.  He  married  early ;  since 
then,  I  fear  it  has  gone  hard  with  him." 

"  But  you  are  not  obliged  to  accept  such  a  trust } " 

"  No,  not  obliged  legally,  perhaps  morally  I  am." 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  5 1 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  he  did  not  give  you  the 
choice  of  refusal." 

*'  He  rather  honors  me  in  supposing  refusal  impos- 
sible, and  certainly  a  man  in  the  grasp  of  death  must 
look  at  life  with  clearer  vision.  He  has  honored  me. 
I  was  somewhat  dazed  at  first,  not  knowing  just  what 
to  think ;  but  of  course  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  the 
child,  if  she  is  of  the  right  stuff." 

"Ah,  that  is  just  the  point !  She  may  not  be  in- 
teresting." 

"  Nor  tractable,  which  would  be  worse." 

"An  uninteresting  child  is  so  tiresome." 

"  I  shall  not  promise  to  keep  her  with  me ;  there 
are  plenty  of  schools." 

"Yes,  a  good  boarding-school  will  have  to  be 
found ;  I  know  of  several.  Of  course  you  cannot  be 
cumbered  with  a  child :  that  would  necessitate  a  maid 
and  a  governess." 

Miss  Alden  was  becoming  interested. 

"You  do  not  keep  a  governess  for  your  nieces, 
Miss  Alden  } " 

"  No,  I  have  only  my  maid.  She  serves  them  too, 
as  much  as  I  think  well  for  them,  —  I  prefer  them  to 
depend  a  little  upon  themselves,  —  and  Grace  and 
May  go  to  school  at  home.  My  brother,  however,  is 
thinking  of  letting  them  go  abroad  with  me  this 
coming  winter." 

"I  wonder  what  this  ward  of  mine  will  look  like  — 
if  she  is  as  pretty  as  her  mother  was ;  that  is  quite 
an  important  element  in  this  transaction." 

"But  the  poor  child — who  is  with  her  at  this  try- 
ing moment  ? " 


<;2  ASPIRATIONS, 

"  True  !  I  will  have  to  inquire.  Poor  Dick !  so  he 
is  dead.     Another  friend  gone  ! " 

"  Suppose  I  go  to  the  city,  and  bring  the  child  here 
for  your  inspection  ?  " 

"  That  certainly  is  a  very  kind  proposal ;  I  can, 
however,  send  a  clerk  on  from  Boston." 

"Ah  !  but  a  young  man  might  find  it  an  awkward 
errand.  She  may  need  an  outfit,  and  she  may  be 
delicate  or  ill  or"  — 

*' Heavens  !  what  am  I  undertaking?  Miss  Alden, 
you  open  my  eyes  to  the  difficulties.  I  begin  to 
recall  my  own  childhood,  — the  doctors,  the  dentists, 
the  schools,  and  the  thousand  and  one  demands  made 
by  the  *  hostages  to  fortune.'  It  is  somewhat  odd, 
too,  that  I  should  be  refused  the  child  of  my  choice, 
and  have  the  child  of  friendship  forced  upon  me." 

Miss  Alden  did  not  understand  the  latter  end  of 
his  speech:  so  she  only  repeated  her  offer,  explaining 
that  it  was  nothing  of  a  journey  for  her,  she  often 
went  on  to  the  city  for  shopping.  May  and  Grace 
must  take  their  sailing  and  bathing  orders  from  Mr. 
Barclay  until  she  returned ;  that  would  be  the  only 
compensation  she  would  exact  from  him,  if  he  were 
equal  even  to  that. 

And  so  it  was  arranged. 

Miss  Alden  left  the  next  day,  combining  her  errand 
of  mercy  with  one  of  convenience.  Her  summer 
gowns  needed  altering,  and  her  dressmaker  was  in 
New  York. 

Three  days  afterward  came  this  letter  to  Mr. 
Barclay. 


ASPIRATIONS.  53 

My  dear  Frank,  —  I  was  just  in  time  to  attend  the  fun- 
eral, and  see  to  the  poor  child.  It  was  most  fortunate  that  you 
allowed  me  to  represent  you.  She  needs  every  things  and 
will  be  a  very  suitable  companion  for  May  and  Gracie.  She  is 
perfectly  unexceptionable  j  is  small  and  slender,  but  much  too 
quiet  and  pale  for  her  age.  It  will  take  me  a  few  days  to  get 
her  mourning  made.  Her  board  was  paid  in  advance  by  her 
poor  father,  who,  I  hear,  was  extremely  honest,  and  though 
very,  very  poor,  leaves  no  debts  behind  him.  Should  you 
change  your  mind  in  regard  to  her,  I  will  adopt  her  myself. 
One  or  two  relatives  offered  to  take  her,  but  she  shrank  from 
them  all.  Tell  the  girls  her  name  is  Ruth.  I  hope  sea-air  will 
bring  a  little  color  to  her  poor,  pale  cheeks.  The  city  is  terri- 
bly dry  and  dusty,  and  the  noise  is  intolerable. 

I  hope  my  nieces  are  models  of  propriety  and  give  you  no 
concern,  and  that  your  health  has  improved. 
Faithfully  yours, 

ALTHEA  ALDEN. 

P.S.  —  Ruth  sends  her  love  to  her  father's  friend,  Mr.  Bar- 
clay. I  hope  you  will  permit  her  to  call  you  uncle:  it  will  sound 
more  friendly.  A.  A. 

Mr.  Barclay  smiled  and  groaned.  The  letter  was 
extremely  characteristic,  but  he  began  to  realize  what 
he  was  undertaking.  No  more  should  he  be  left  to 
himself.  Already  had  he  become  of  double  interest 
to  Miss  Alden,  and  hers  would  not  long  be  the  only 
finger  in  the  pie.  It  was  certainly  easy  enough  for 
Dick  Morris  to  walk  out  of  the  world  leaving  his 
child  behind  him  ;  indeed,  he  had  no  alternative  :  the 
difficulty  was  left  for  the  living  man  to  adjust,  and 
he  too,  having  a  kind  heart,  had  no  alternative.  And 
then  his  sorrow,  as  usual,  tinged  his  thoughts.  If 
Belle  had  only  been  spared  to  him,  how  trifling  would, 
this  obligation   have  seemed !     With    her  tact   and 


54  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

sweet  temper,  how  happily  every  thing  would  have 
been  arranged !  But  for  her  sake,  as  well  as  Dick's, 
he  had  no  intention  of  refusing  the  trust  imposed 
upon  him.  He  would  take  a  good  look  at  the  child, 
make  some  sort  of  an  estimate  of  her  points,  consult 
Miss  Alden  as  to  her  present  needs,  find  a  good 
school,  and  place  her  in  it.  Then,  if  the  doctors  had 
settled  about  his  lungs,  he  would  depart  for  the  South 
of  France  when  cool  weather  should  set  in,  if  only  to 
escape  the  advice  and  suggestions  which  his  guard- 
ianship would  bring  about  his  head. 

Meanwhile,  little  Ruth,  drowsy  and  dazed  with 
grief,  was  being  used  as  a  milliner's  block,  and 
swathed  and  folded  in  crape.  To  get  out  of  the 
boarding-house,  with  its  perpetual  smell  of  food,  was 
a  pleasant  change,  especially  as  the  kind  lady  who 
took  her  about  always  came  in  a  trim  little  coLip6, 
and  had  a  nosegay  somewhere  about  her ;  but  it  was 
fearfully  tiresome  to  stand,  and  be  measured  and 
fitted  and  discussed,  to  have  gloves  tried  on,  and 
bonnets  tried  on,  and  find  herself  black,  dismal  black, 
from  top  to  toe.  It  is  a  singular  way  we  Christians 
have  of  expressing  our  belief  in  a  blessed  immortality, 
this  swathing  ourselves  in  the  most  hopeless  looking 
garments  we  can  find. 

But  the  preparations,  though  they  seemed  long  to 
Ruth,  were  really  finished  in  a  short  time ;  and  she 
found  herself  with  a  tearful  smile  on  her  face,  as  she 
looked  in  the  cracked  looking-glass  at  her  new  attire, 
put  on  for  the  journey,  and  heard  the  men  carrying 
away  her  luggage,  and  knew  that  she  would  never 
come  back  to  this  house  of  sorrow.     For  it  is  a  great 


ASPIRATIONS,  55 

relief  to  a  child  to  get  away  from  the  scene  of  anguish 
and  mysterious  pain  which  darkens  all  the  sunshine 
and  compels  silence  and  gloom. 

She  sorrowed  none  the  less  for  her  father,  but 
there  was  a  little  springing  of  hope,  a  few  tender 
blades  of  joy  in  her  young  heart,  at  the  prospect 
Miss  Alden  portrayed  to  her.  And  how  honestly  a 
child  allows  itself  to  be  pleased,  to  smile  even  through 
tears !  it  has  no  compunctions,  no  hypocritical  desire 
to  look  afflicted,  and  no  immoderate  demand  for  sym- 
pathy. 

"  Heavens !  what  a  rare,  sweet  face,"  said  Mr. 
Barclay  to  himself,  as  on  the  day  of  her  return  Miss 
Alden  led  Ruth  into  his  apartment,  followed  by 
Grace  and  May  Alden,  who  had  at  once,  and  with  child- 
ish effusion,  taken  their  new  acquaintance  into  their 
youthful  keeping.    Aloud,  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear.  You  and  I  ought 
to  have  known  each  other  before,  but  you  find  me 
laid  up  for  a  while,  and  so  Miss  Alden  has  kindly 
done  for  me  what  I  should  have  done  for  myself." 

Ruth  advanced  timidly,  and  took  the  chair  beside 
the  invalid.  There  was  just  enough  resemblance 
between  the  condition  of  this  invalid,  and  that  of  the 
one  to  whom  she  had  so  recently  said  farewell,  to 
make  her  feel  at  her  ease,  as  well  as  to  arouse  her 
sorrow  and  her  sympathy.  She  made  no  reply  to 
his  kind  greeting  other  than  to  fix  her  gentle  gaze 
upon  him  with  a  sad  tenderness  that  made  Mr.  Bar- 
clay look  vainly  around  for  the  handkerchief  he  had 
misplaced. 

"Was  your  journey  fatiguing.?     Have  you   ever 


56  ASPIRATIONS. 

before  been  to  the  seashore  ?  "  he  questioned  rapidly, 
to  hide  his  agitation. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  A  soft,  low  voice  —  an  excellent  thing  in  woman," 
again  was  Mr.  Barclay's  mental  speech. 

**Then  you  will  find  much  to  amuse  you;  and 
these  lively  girls  will  have  to  show  you  all  the  won- 
ders of  the  deep,  until  I  can  get  about  again." 

"  But  I  think  I  would  rather  wait  upon  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all ;  I  shall  soon  be  all  right. 
Children  need  air  and  sunshine  and  merriment. 
You  must  grow  strong  and  gay  with  bathing  and 
boating." 

"  But  I  am  used  to  taking  care  of  things.  Father 
called  me  his  little  nurse." 

There  was  a  gentle  insistence  and  a  pleading  tone 
to  the  soft  voice,  which  made  Mr.  Barclay  look  at 
Miss  Alden  despairingly.  Instead  of  his  caring  for 
her,  here  was  this  bit  of  a  creature  desiring  to  be  his 
protector,  for  she  went  on  to  say,  — 

"  I  can  drop  medicine  very  steadily,  and  I  can  keep 
the  glasses  and  spoons  so  that  they  shine ;  and  I  can 
make  a  bed  up  very  nicely,  —  so  father  said." 

**  Can  you  read  aloud  1 "  put  in  Miss  Alden  with 
gentle  tact. 

**  Oh,  yes,"  said  Ruth  eagerly,  a  tinge  of  rose  com- 
ing to  her  cheeks. 

**  Well,  I  daresay  Mr.  Barclay  will  let  you  read  to 
him  once  in  a  while.  He  has  a  nurse,  you  know, 
else  he  would  be  very  glad  to  let  you  show  him  all 
your  nice  little  accomplishments.  What  have  you 
read.?" 


AS  PI R  A  TIONS.  5  7 

"  Oh,  every  thing  that  father  liked,  —  *  The  Prin- 
cess,' and  'Aurora  Leigh,*  and  *  In  Memoriam,' 
and  'The  Tempest;'  but  father  liked  *The  Essays 
of  Elia'  best  of  all." 

"  'The  Essays  of  Elia'  to  a  dying  man  ;"  this  was 
another  aside  from  Mr.  Barclay.  "  Poor  fellow,  I 
don't  blame  him.  He  wanted  to  laugh  as  well  as  the 
rest  of  us,  and  he  had  precious  little  to  laugh  at." 

"  Father  didn't  like  *  Artemus  Ward  or  '  Mark 
Twain.'  He  said  they  had  no  wit,  it  was  all  coarse 
humor ;  and  that  Tom  Hood  and  Charles  Lamb  were 
like  wax-candles,  they  gave  such  clear  fine  light." 

"  And  what  did  your  father  say  about  the  others, 
Tennyson  and  Mrs.  Browning  and  Shakspeare .? " 
said  Miss  Alden,  glad  of  the  diversion  of  thought  for 
Mr.  Barclay  as  well  as  for  the  child. 

*'  I  don't  remember  all  he  told  me.  I  think  he 
said  Mr.  Tennyson  was  very  much  like  somebody 
else  —  a  long  Latin  name  "  — 

"  Theocritus  .-*  "  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"Yes,  that  was  the  name.  And  he  said  Mrs. 
Browning  had  wonderful  power ;  and  that,  put  them 
all  together,  every  one  of  them,  they  wouldn't  live 
as  long  as  Robert  Burns,  because  he  "  — 

"He  what.?"  urged  Mr.  Barclay,  noticing  the  child 
hesitate. 

"  Because  he  wrote  for  poor  people  and  was  a  poor 
man  himself." 

The  child  had  hesitated  because  she  knew  she  was 
not  among  poor  people.  The  pictures,  the  comfort, 
the  beauty  of  much  that  she  saw  gave  her  this  im- 
pression ;  and  she  supposed  she  was  committing  a 


5  8  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

breach  of  good  manners  to  speak  as  slightingly  as 
her  father  had  evidently  spoken  of  those  who  were 
well  off  in  the  world. 

"  And  why  would  that  make  him  live  longer  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  except  that  there  are  so  many 
more  poor  people  in  the  world." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Ruth  ?" 

"  Father  said  so,  sir." 

"  Will  you  be  as  willing  to  quote  my  words,  and 
be  guided  by  my  wishes,  as  by  those  of  the  father  in 
whose  place  I  am  to  stand,  dear  little  Ruth } " 

She  looked  into  his  very  soul,  it  seemed  to  him, 
before  she  answered ;  then  the  violets  filled  to  the 
brim  with  dew,  and  throwing  herself  down  upon  him, 
she  cried, — 

"  If  you  will  love  me  as  he  did,  I  will  do  any  thing, 
any  thing ! " 

Mr.  Barclay  kissed  her  in  silence,  and  Miss  Alden 
drew  her  gently  away,  giving  her  in  charge  to  the 
two  round-eyed  girls,  whose  laughter  generally  had 
to  be  checked,  but  who  now  were  mute  and  still. 
They  wound  their  arms  about  Ruth  as  young  fawns 
caress  a  hurt  doe,  and  led  her  off  to  their  favorite 
haunts  on  the  beach  where  the  dashing  waves  tossed 
their  silvery  crests. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  entitle  *  perfectly  unexcep- 
tionable,' my  dear  Miss  Alden,"  said  Mr.  Barclay, 
with  a  shade  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone,  when  the  chil- 
dren had  gone. 

Miss  Alden  was  not  expecting  thanks  for  her 
trouble.  She  knew  that  her  services  were  fully  ap- 
preciated, and   she  was   not   disposed   to   over-rate 


ASPIRATIONS.  59 

them.  But  she  did  not  quite  understand  Mr.  Bar- 
clay's remark.  So  she  smoothed  her  soft  hair  with 
just  a  touch  of  her  taper  fingers  as  she  "replied,  — 

"Yes,  I  do  think  so.  You  mustn't  be  troubled 
by  this  little  outburst  of  feeling :  it  is  extremely 
natural,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances." 

"I'm  not  troubled.  It  would  have  been  odd  had 
she  shown  less  feeling.  She  is  the  loveliest  little 
creature ;  as  choice  as  a  bit  of  Sevres,  as  fine,  as 
pure,  as  transparent,  —  too  fine  for  a  man's  rough 
fingers." 

"Ah!  you  exaggerate." 

"  Not  at  all.  My  eyes  are  fresh ;  but  I  cannot 
hope  to  convey  my  impression  to  one  who  only  finds 
her  *  unexceptionable.*  " 

"  But,  Mr.  Barclay,  my  words  are  very  high  praise, 
I  assure  you.  I  am  very  exigeante.  I  suppose  you 
allude  to  my  letter.  It  was  written  in  haste ;  but, 
after  all,  what  more  would  you  have  had  me  say }  I 
am  not  an  enthusiast,  and  I  have  not  the  habit  of 
over-praising." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Alden  ;  I  am  rude.  Ill- 
ness has  made  me  overbearing.  The  child  to  me  is 
as  exquisite  as  a  lily.  Did  you  notice  the  play  of 
expression  in  her  face,  —  the  sorrow  and  tenderness 
mingling  with  happiness  at  the  thought  of  her  being 
of  some  possible  use  to  me } " 

"  I  saw  less  than  you  did,  probably ;  but  she  has 
a  delicate  prettiness,  I  acknowledge." 

"  It  is  more  than  that,  and  will  be  as  she  grows. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  undertaken  too  much." 

"  Shall  I  take  her  off  your  hands  ? " 


6o  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"Not  till  I  have  made  the  experiment  —  and  failed. 
But  what  shall  I  do  with  her  at  present  ? " 

"Leave  her  to  Grace  and  May.  Children  seem 
to  understand  each  other." 

"Yes;  there  seems  to  be  a  free-masonry  among 
them.     But  she  must  have  a  maid." 

"That  is  as  you  please." 

"  Lessons,  I  suppose,  need  not  be  thought  of  im- 
mediately 1 " 

"  No,  not  for  warm  weather." 

"  And  she  has  every  thing  else  she  needs,  thanks 
to  your  kindness." 

"  No  thanks  are  necessary.  She  has  a  neat  ward- 
robe, simple  and  becoming.  You  have  no  idea  how 
destitute  she  was." 

"  Poor  Dick !  How  hard  it  must  have  been  for  him 
to  see  such  a  sweet  little  thing  deprived  of  all  that  she 
ought  to  have  had.  I  wish  I  had  known  his  situa- 
tion ;  but  pride  and  poverty  go  hand  in  hand, 
always." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  very  true.  There  were 
relatives  at  the  funeral  who  were  abundantly  able  to 
help  him.     I  told  you  about  them,  I  think  ?  " 

"  You  mentioned  that  there  was  some  sort  of  an 
offer  made  to  the  child." 

"Yes,  from  her  mother's  uncle,  a  pompous  sort  of 
a  man.  He  was  quite  surprised  and  annoyed  that 
Ruth  had  been  given  to  you,  and  tried  to  make  her 
think  it  was  her  duty  to  go  home  with  him." 

"What  could  have  been  his  motive }  " 

"  Perhaps  he  was  ashamed  that  he  had  not  sooner 
befriended  them." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  6 1 

"It  is  charitable  to  suppose  so.  What  was  his 
name  ? " 

"  Biggs  or  Boggs ;  Boggs,  I  think.  I  have  not  a 
very  good  ear  for  names." 

"  Did  the  child  seem  to  know  him  well  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,  and  she  shrank  from  even  speaking  to 
him.  He  had  a  certain  superficial  polish  of  manner, 
but  he  murdered  the  king's  English.  His  coachman 
was  in  livery.  There  was  an  aunt,  too,  who,  judging 
by  externals,  had  wealth.  She  wore  diamonds  large 
as  the  tip  of  my  finger.  She  was  quite  overcome  at 
the  funeral,  and  was  profuse  in  attentions  to  Ruth,  in 
a  peculiar  way.  Her  name  was  something  like  Ven- 
ner  or  Vedder.  I  really  am  ashamed  of  my  inability 
to  remember  names." 

"What  does  it  matter.?  We  shall  never  hear  of 
them  again." 

"No.  I  suppose  not;  that  is,  if  you  assume  the 
guardianship  alone." 

"And  why  should  I  not.?" 

"  Really,  I  don't  know,  Frank;  it  is  not  for  me  to 
dictate.  Belle  would  have  been  glad  to  have  you  in- 
terest yourself  in  so  kind  and  unselfish  a  project  as 
the  education  of  this  young  thing  ;  but  your  relatives 
may  find  fault." 

"  I  am  not  accustomed  to  consult  them." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,  but  "  — 

"  Well,  Miss  Alden,  I  wait  for  your  *but.'  " 

"  I'll  not  give  it ;  second  thoughts  are  wise." 

"Not  always.  Did  you  not  say  you  were  willing 
to  assume  the  task  if  I  concluded  to  relinquish 
it  ? " 


62  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"No,  not  just  that.  I  only  asked  if  I  should  take 
her  out  of  your  hands." 

"You  surely  wrote,  that,  if  I  changed  my  mind,  you 
would  adopt  her  yourself;  at  least,  this  is  the  impres- 
sion your  letter  made  upon  me,  and  I  cannot  be  so 
utterly  mistaken." 

"I  may  have  done  so  under  an  impulse  of  pity; 
but,  as  I  said  just  now,  second  thoughts  are  wise 
ones.  I  had  not  looked  at  the  matter  in  all  its 
bearings.  Grace  and  May  have  the  first  claim  upon 
me,  as  your  relatives  have  upon  you,  Frank." 

"Ah!  now  I  know  what  your  'but'  means." 

Miss  Alden  smiled  and  asked,  "  Is  it  not  well  to 
look  before  you  leap  V 

"  Quite  as  well  for  Miss  Alden,  but  I  reserve  the 
masculine  right  to  leap  without  looking." 

And  so  their  conversation  ended. 

Mr.  Barclay  did  not  regain  strength  rapidly,  and 
preferred  to  remain  in  his  rooms  "  away  from  the 
crowd,"  as  he  expressed  it  ;  but  Ruth  came  daily  to 
him,  with  cheeks  that  began  to  rival  the  seashells  in 
delicate  color.  She  was  entirely  under  Miss  Alden's 
kind  supervision,  though  the  necessary  maid,  a  deco- 
rous Irish  girl  (for  Ruth  knew  no  French,  though 
the  Aldens  chattered  glibly  to  their  Alsacienne),  had 
been  provided. 

While  Mr.  Barclay  was  still  undecided  as  to  plans, 
and  was  living  in  invalid  fashion,  a  card  was  one  day 
brought  to  him  bearing  "Boggs"  upon  it.  Mr.  Bar- 
clay read  it  over  more  than  once,  "  C.  Boggs,"  but 
failing  to  remember  any  acquaintance  of  the  name 
excused  himself.     The  card  was  then  followed  by  a 


ASPIliA  TIONS.  63 

message,  saying  that  Mr.  Boggs  was  the  uncle  of  Miss 
Ruth  Morris.  Recalling  Miss  Alden's  description  of 
the  man,  Mr.  Barclay  at  once  sent  for  him,  wondering 
what  would  be  his  errand. 

"Ah,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Barclay,"  was  the  some- 
what patronizing  salutation  of  this  unknown  but 
none-the-less-at-his-ease  individual.  *'  Sorry  to  see 
you  sick  this  warm  weather,  —  very  warm,  very 
warm.  I  am  quite  out  of  sorts,  too ;  shouldn't  have 
thought  of  making  such  an  exertion  but  for  being 
on  my  way  to  the  Vineyard.  Suppose  you  want  to 
know  what  brought  me  here ;  you'd  admire  to  know, 
I  suppose } " 

Mr.  Barclay  expressed  himself  as  reasonably  in- 
quisitive in  so  indifferent  a  manner  as  to  contradict 
his  words. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Boggs,  using  his  hand- 
kerchief to  mop  his  perspiring  countenance,  and  dis- 
playing costly  sleeve-buttons,  "  I  wa'n't  altogether 
satisfied  with  them  arrangements  that  our  friend  and 
relative  Dick  Morris  made  before  he  departed  this 
life.  I'm  a  man  of  some  pride  of  family,  and  Dick 
ought  to  have  consulted  me  about  his  daughter. 
Now,  I  don't  suppose  you  were  very  much  flattered  to 
be  chosen  as  the  guardian  of  Ruth ;  no  more  was  I 
to  be  left  out.  I  can  provide  for  her,  if  I  choose, 
handsomely  ;  but  I  ought  to  have  been  asked.  It  is 
the  least  a  man  should  do  who  wants  a  favor  done  him 
is  to  ask  for  it,  as  I  used  to  tell  Dick  when  I'd  hear  of 
his  being  in  a  tight  place ;  but  he'd  only  quote  some 
darned  Greek  or  Latin  at  me,  and  never  give  me  no 
chance  to  help  him." 


64  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

Mr.  Boggs  paused,  and  Mr.  Barclay  felt  obliged  to 
respond. 

"  It  was  not  very  encouraging  to  one  who  was  dis- 
posed to  be  philanthropic  or  benevolent,  certainly,  to 
be  met  in  that  sort  of  way." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Glad  you  agree  with  me. 
Well,  now,  about  Ruth.  I've  got  children  enough 
of  my  own,  and  responsibility  enough ;  but  I  am 
sorry  for  the  girl,  and  want  to  do  well  by  her.  But 
she  can't  expect  to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness. 

Mr.  Boggs  seemed  to  expect  assent  to  this  on  Mr. 
Barclay's  part ;  but,  meeting  no  response,  he  went 
on,  — 

"  She  ought  to  be  brought  up  to  earn  her  own  liv- 
in' ;  and  I've  been  ready  to  give  a  helpin'  hand  to 
more  than  one  orphan  in  my  time,  and  am  not  goin' 
to  back  out  now  if  Dick  Morris  didn't  do  as  he'd 
ought  to.  The  truth  is,  Dick  was  a  trifle  above  the 
rest  of  us  in  his  own  opinion :  a  college  education 
didn't  do  him  no  good ;  it  only  set  him  up  in  his  own 
conceit ;  took  all  the  vim  out  of  him  for  business. 
Now,  I  left  school  at  twelve,  and  went  right  straight 
into  trade.  My  father  had  money,  but  he  wan't  the 
man  to  let  boys  hang  on  to  him  ;  consequence  is,  I 
have  a  pile  of  my  own,  live  in  comfort,  have  the  best 
of  every  thing,  and  don't  feel  like  seeing  a  relation 
left  to  strangers  as  Ruth  has  been." 

"  Very  creditable  sentiments,  Mr.  Boggs,"  was  Mr. 
Barclay's  rejoinder ;  but  Mr.  Boggs  was  not  quite 
sure  that  he  had  gained  Mr.  Barclay's  approval. 
There  was  a  little  mocking  smile  on  Mr.  Barclay's 
countenance,  and  a  languor  of  manner  as  he  tilted  a 


ASPIRATIONS.  65 

paper-cutter  on  his  fingers,  that  Mr.  Boggs  did  not 
admire. 

"  Did  you  know  Dick  Morris  intimately  ? "  he  sud- 
denly asked,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  occurred  to 
him. 

"Very,"  answered  Mr.  Barclay  laconically. 

"  And  his  wife  ?  " 

•'  Not  so  well." 

"  He  made  an  idol  of  her ;  spent  his  money  on  her 
as  if  he  had  been  a  rich  man." 

"Indeed." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  foolish  match." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  the  child, 
Mr.  Barclay  t " 

"  Nothing,  at  present." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  relieve  you  of  the  bur- 
den } " 

"Thank  you,  no." 

"  But  you  can't  be  bothered  this  way  without  some 
compensation." 

Mr.  Barclay  simply  looked  at  the  man  with  so 
astonished  a  gaze  that  Mr.  Boggs  was  alarmed.  Per- 
haps this  invalid  was  subject  to  spasms  preceded  by 
a  stare. 

"  I'm  ready  to  come  down  with  the  cash  and  do  my 
share,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"  You  are  really  very  generous,  Mr.  Boggs,  but  I 
shall  need  no  assistance." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  your  own  business  best ;  but, 
remember,  I  am  a  man  of  experience.  This  girl  is 
very  likely  of  the  same  stuff  as  Dick,  and  you  oughtn't 


^  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

to  encourage  fine-lady  notions.  She  mustn't  expect 
any  thing  from  us  if  she  doesn't  work.  You  will 
send  her  to  the  common-school,  of  course,  and  then 
she  can  become  a  teacher." 

Mr.  Barclay  here  rose,  and,  with  an  unmistakable 
air  of  dismissal,  said,  — 

"I  thank  you  for  your  visit,  Mr.  Boggs,  and  for 
your  interest  in  my  ward.  In  assuming  the  relation 
of  guardian  to  my  old  friend's  daughter,  I  beg  to  have 
the  honor  of  her  entire  control,  and  must  ask  you 
henceforth  to  give  yourself  no  trouble  concerning 
her.  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  my  friend  for  the  trust 
he  has  reposed  in  me,  and  shall  endeavor  to  fulfil  the 
obligation  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  without  assistance 
and  without  advice.     Good-morning,  Mr.  Boggs." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Barclay,  good-morning;  happy 
to  see  you,  sir,  when  you  come  my  way.  I  am  going 
to  camp-meeting  when  I  leave  here.  Ruth  would 
have  to  be  a  Methodist  if  she  came  among  us.  But 
I'll  offer  no  more  advice :  you  know  your  own  busi- 
ness best.  But  I've  done  my  duty  to  the  child,  so 
good-morning." 

He  mopped  his  blazing  face  again,  and  again  dis- 
played the  showy  sleeve-buttons. 

Mr.  Barclay  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  lighted  a  cigar, 
and  murmuring,  "  Poor  Dick !  poor  Dick  !  "  picked 
up  a  volume  of  Moliere ;  but  he  was  in  no  humor  for 
reading. 

"So  I  must  make  a  schoolmistress  of  my  little 
wild-rose,  no  matter  what  her  adaptiveness,  no  matter 
what  her  general  qualities.  Pour  the  jelly  into  the 
mould  while  it  is  liquid  and  warm,  and  turn  it  out 


AS  PI R  A  TIONS.  67 

according  to  recipe.  Ah,  well,  the  man  might  have 
been  worse !  He  is  only  a  type  of  an  essentially 
practical  and  unmistakably  vulgar  class  with  whom 
success  is  every  thing.  But  I  do  not  wonder  Dick 
wanted  none  of  his  help." 

Ruth  came  in  just  then  with  May.  They  had  been 
bathing,  and  looked  like  Naiads  with  their  wet  locks 
hanging  over  their  shoulders. 

"It  is  just  too  glorious  to-day,  uncle  Frank,"  said 
May,  who  had  lost  all  awe  of  her  aunt's  friend. 

"  It  is,  indeed,  Mr.  Barclay,"  repeated  Ruth.  "  The 
air  is  like  wine." 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  simile,  Ruth  } " 

"  From  some  of  my  father's  books,  I  suppose,  Mr. 
Barclay.  But  please  do  come  out ;  it  will  make  you 
well,  and  we  want  you  with  us." 

"  Did  you  meet  any  one  on  the  sands,  Ruth }  '* 

"  Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  But  some  one  you  knew,  a  relation  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Barclay.     Who  was  it  ? " 

*'  Mr.  Eoggs  was  here." 

The  child's  face  grew  pale  and  downcast. 

"  Did  he  come  for  me  .-* " 

"  He  cannot  have  you,  Ruth.  I  shall  keep  you  all 
for  my  very  own." 


6S  ASPIRATIONS, 


CHAPTER  VI. 

But  where  was  Lillo  all  these  long  summer  days  ? 
long,  and  bright,  and  buoyant  with  promise.  Was  he 
skimming  the  waves  like  the  sea-gulls,  or  dreaming 
out  his  pictures  under  the  full-orbed  moon  ? 

Early  in  the  dew  of  the  morning,  while  the  sojourn- 
ers at  the  ''Neck "were  still  slumbering,  he  was 
trudging  off  to  the  small  hamlet  with  the  very  fra- 
grant appellation  of  "Codtown,"  getting  an  occa- 
sional lift  from  a  wagon  on  his  way,  and  striving  to 
do  his  best  at  the  trade  which  was  practised,  only  in 
the  most  primitive  manner,  at  Mr.  Smears's  small 
shop.  There  had  come  a  change  in  the  boy's  aspect 
and  demeanor.  Hitherto,  he  had  been  careless  and 
light-hearted  to  a  degree  which  made  him  more  like 
the  wild  creatures  of  the  forest  than  a  beinsr  bound 
down  by  civilization.  He  had  lived  like  the  wild 
creatures  too,  in  a  measure,  and  his  joyous  abandon 
had  known  nothing  of  care  or  perplexity.  Now  the 
growth  of  the  human  was  asserting  itself,  accompa- 
nied by  a  repression,  a  gravity  easily  mistaken  for 
sullenness,  and  an  alteration  which  even  grandmother 
Marsh  noticed.  That  the  boy  was  striving  to  accom- 
plish something  which  in  its  nature  was  foreign  to 
his  own,  did  not,  of  course,  suggest  itself  to  her.    She 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  69 

was  very  proud  of  the  determination  he  was  showing, 
and  unfeignedly  glad  at  the  prospect  of  what  she 
considered  to  be  usefulness.  But  even  she  missed 
that  at  which  she  had  scolded  and  growled.  There 
was  no  merry  laughter,  no  whistling,  no  flinging 
about :  all  was  staid  and  decorous.  His  spare  mo- 
ments were  not  now  spent  in  decorating  whitewashed 
walls  and  embellishing  profusely  in  charcoal-sketches. 
His  last  sketch  had  been  made  the  day  after  the 
stormy  episode  at  Seal  Island :  it  was  an  attempt  to 
reproduce  a  laughing  face  set  in  a  frame  of  interla- 
cing boughs.  It  was  crude  and  rude,  but  forceful. 
Though  he  did  not  sketch,  he  did  read,  and  with 
avidity.  In  the  intervals  of  paint-mixing  and  pow- 
der-grinding and  oil-measuring,  from  the  pocket  of 
blouse  or  overalls  was  produced  the  book  which  hap- 
pened at  the  moment  to  entrance  him ;  for  he  had  a 
goodly  lot  to  choose  from  in  the  box  which  had  been 
ordered  up  from  Boston  by  Mr.  Barclay  immediately 
after  his  unexpected  and  disastrous  bath.  Certainly 
it  was  a  mixed  diet,  but  none  the  less  digestible,  all 
this  feast  of  fat  things  in  literature.  History,  biog- 
raphy, poetry,  natural  history,  science,  and  classical 
fiction  were  all  represented  in  Mr.  Barclay's  order, 
and  in  the  handiest  form  were  all  the  books  bound. 
It  would  have  grieved  a  lover  of  bindings  to  have 
seen  these  books  stacked  one  upon  another  in  Lillo's 
small  garret-room,  with  a  piece  of  tarpaulin  over  and 
about  them,  as  protection  from  possible  leaks  in  the 
roof  ;  but  no  bibliopole  could  have  surveyed  them  with 
greater  affection  than  did  the  fisher-lad.  They  so  far 
compensated   him  for  his  disliked  occupation  as  to 


yo  ASP//?  A  TIONS. 

make  him  oblivious  for  the  time  of  every  thing  but 
their  contents.  Two  or  three  times,  Miss  Alden, 
Ruth,  Grace,  and  May  had  tried  to  find  Lillo  at  home, 
and,  faihng  in  this,  had  essayed  to  entertain  Mrs. 
Marsh ;  but  the  old  woman  had  shown  so  much  re- 
serve, and  had  so  plainly  given  them  to  understand 
that  she  preferred  her  loneliness  to  their  presence, 
that  they  had  ceased  their  visits.  Once  in  a  while 
Lillo  had  seen  their  merry  party  on  the  beach,  and 
had  even  followed  their  laughter  of  an  evening  on 
the  water;  but  he  managed  to  keep  his  own  boat 
unnoticed,  and  would  leave  the  allurements  of  the 
musical  voices  to  fish  for  his  granny's  breakfast.  If 
he  had  longings  and  regrets,  they  were  buried  in  the 
first  page  that  he  next  turned  over. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Marsh  was  getting  more  and 
more  feeble.  With  the  absence  of  her  life-long  com- 
panion, many  of  her  duties  had  ended  ;  and,  when  the 
incentive  to  exertion  ceases  with  aged  people  whose 
lives  are  spent  in  toil,  there  is  often  a  very  sudden 
decline  in  strength.  Their  interest  in  life  wanes. 
This  was  the  case  with  Lillo's  grandmother.  She 
still  sat  upright  and  knitted  her  stockings,  when  the 
domestic  affairs  were  settled ;  but  more  frequently 
her  head  drooped,  and  her  knitting  fell  to  the  floor. 
Sometimes  Lillo  would  come  home  late,  tired  and 
eager  for  his  supper,  to  find  her  still  sleeping,  with  a 
pallor  and  expression  of  fatigue  on  her  countenance 
which  did  not  escape  the  boy.  Very  tenderly  would 
he  regard  her  at  such  times,  and  step  lightly  for  fear 
of  disturbing  her;  but  it  only  irritated  her  to  waken, 
and  find  the  cloth  laid,  the  fire  rekindled,  and  the  boy 


ASPIRATIONS.  71 

preparing  supper  for  himself.  She  did  not  compre- 
hend her  own  weakness,  and  Lillo  invariably  received 
a  sound  scolding  for  doing  the  most  simple  and  neces- 
sary trifles.  But  his  nature  was  too  sweet  to  be 
spoiled  by  any  crabbed  peevishness.  He  could  as- 
sume a  slightly  saucy  air  of  indifference,  which,  to  a 
younger  woman,  would  have  been  exasperating,  but 
which  was  wasted  on  Mrs.  Marsh's  dulled  percep- 
tions, while  it  was  a  sort  of  armor  to  Lillo  himself ; 
with  it  he  could  receive  without  injury  any  amount 
of  buffeting.  And  so  he  took. all  the  scoldings  and 
fault-findings.  To  be  sure,  he  had  always  been  used 
to  them ;  but  perhaps  with  his  growth  had  come  an 
enlarged  sense  of  justice,  which  made  more  apparent 
the  fact  of  their  being  undeserved. 

At  Mr.  Smears's  paint-shop,  trade  was  dull ;  there 
were  no  villas  in  the  neighborhood  to  need  frequent 
new  coats,  and  the  boarding-houses  waited  for  their 
guests  to  go  before  they  refurbished.  A  barrow  or 
wagon  had  occasionally  to  be  touched  up.  But  after 
a  few  experiments  it  was  found  that  Lillo,  having  a 
natural  faculty  for  tools,  could  be  usefully  employed 
in  more  ways  than  one.  Slight  repairs,  demanding 
a  good  eye  for  straight  lines  and  a  skilful  use  or  ad- 
justment of  old  material,  were  assigned  him ;  and 
the  boy,  hating  idleness,  responded  with  alacrity. 
Day  by  day  the  tasks  grew  larger  and  more  numer- 
ous. Quickly  and  readily  he  accepted  them,  to  the 
surprise  of  all  who  watched  him. 

Mr.  Smears's  "  bound  boy,"  which  as  an  apprentice 
he  was  called,  was  often  in  demand. 

And    so    the    summer   passed,    and    the    summer 


72  ASPIKA  TIONS. 

idlers  sped  home,  and  the  lodging-houses  were 
closed. 

Lillo  looked  out  over  the  vast  expanse  of  water, 
with  an  incoming  tide  of  hopes  and  wishes.  His 
reading  had  widened  his  horizon.  How  could  he 
reach  the  other  side  of  that  vast  flood  }  When  would 
this  serfdom  end,  and  he  be  master  of  himself } 

Keen  and  sharp  blew  the  east  winds  over  the  ocean, 
piling  the  sand-bars  higher  than  ever.  The  little 
brown  house  stood  as  bare  and  lonely  as  always,  tak- 
ing the  wind  in  its  face ;  but  long  into  the  dreary 
nights  a  clear,  bright  beam  shot  from  its  garret  win- 
dow, like  the  thought  which  had  wakened  within  and 
was  sending  rays  out  far  and  wide,  scintillating  and 
flashing  on  the  wide  waste  of  darkness. 

Wildly  the  autumn  winds  beat  about  the  little 
house,  making  it  groan  and  creak  and  wheeze.  They 
carried  tales  of  wreck  and  ravage.  They  screamed 
their  cries  of  bitter  joy  down  the  chimney ;  they 
hooted  and  howled  their  contempt  of  peace  and  ease 
and  fireside  joys,  and  they  sighed  that  they  could  do 
no  more.  For  the  little  house  was  undaunted,  and 
sent  up  its  curl  of  smoke  from  the  chimney  as  if  the 
winds  had  never  breathed  their  fables.  It  had  not 
stood  before  the  ocean's  mighty  throe  so  long  to  be 
easily  made  the  sport  of  the  winds  even  in  their  win- 
try blasts. 

Then  the  snow  hissed  on  the  billows  and  tossed  its 
flakes,  wreathing  and  writhing  and  twisting  its  drifts 
about  till  the  house  was  nearly  buried.  But  still 
shone  that  beam,  as  an  eye  from  which  no  accident 
or  misfortune  or  tempest  could  take  the  brave  gleam. 


ASPIRATIONS.  73 

When  the  long  winter  was  over,  and  the  sky  was 
full  of  little  downy  clouds  drifting  like  doves  across 
its  deep  blue,  Mr.  Barclay  returning  from  Florida, 
and  en  route  to  Geneva  whither  he  had  sent  Ruth  to 
school,  desirous  of  making  amends  for  an  indifference 
and  forgetfulness  which  hatred  of  letter-writing  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  possessing,  but  to  which  he 
would  not  plead  guilty,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
little  brown  house,  without  getting  a  response.  He 
had  noticed  how  tight  and  trim  and  snug  it  looked 
as  he  drew  near,  and  now  he  saw  that  every  window- 
shutter  was  barred,  every  loop-hole  of  ingress  care- 
fully covered.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Had  its  inhabit- 
ants not  wakened  from  their  nightly  slumber,  or  had 
they  been  hibernating  all  the  winter  through } 

The  nearest  neighbor  was  a  half  mile  away. 

Again  Mr.  Barclay  rattled  the  latches  and  ham- 
mered on  the  doors,  only  to  hear  the  echo  of  his  noise 
die  into  silence.  Perhaps  they  had  taken  a  holiday 
and  had  gone  off  visiting.  So  he  cast  about  for  a 
nook  in  which  to  wait.  There  was  a  rude  bench  near 
at  hand  where  old  Abner  sat  and  wove  his  smaller 
seines.  On  it  Mr.  Barclay  rested,  looking  as  he  did 
so  at  the  curious  scrawls  and  scrolls  which  had  been 
evidently  executed  by  Lillo.  Even  these  gave  indi- 
cations of  a  luxuriant  fancy  and  freedom  of  touch, 
though  they  must  have  been  done  when  he  could  but 
just  handle  a  knife. 

Ah  !  if  he  could  have  had  that  boy. 

He  waited  till  patience  was  exhausted,  then  he 
drove  to  the  nearest  house.  An  anxious,  angular 
woman  gave  him  information. 


74  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"  No,  there  was  no  one  livin*  there  now  sence  Mrs. 
Marsh  died.  She  died  just  as  the  old  man  did,  only 
she  was  rather  quicker,  givin'  out.  *  When  did  she 
die  .-* '  Oh,  jest  after  New  Year's,  and  sence  then  no- 
body had  seen  the  boy.  He  was  bound  to  Mr.  Smears, 
and  give  promise  o'  bein'  amazin'  smart  at  his  callin' ; 
but  he  had  run  off,  and  no  one  knew  where  he  was. 
Likely  as  not  had  gone  to  sea.  Most  o'  the  boys 
about  did  that.  It  wa'n't  at  all  to  be  wondered  at, 
—  nobody  to  care  for  him.  S'pose  he  had  smuggled 
himself  into  some  passin'  bark  or  gone  down  to  Bos- 
ting.  There  wa'n't  no  use  in  tryin'  to  find  out  any 
thin'  more,  for  no  one  knew  nothin'  about  him." 


ASPIRATIONS.  75 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Ten  years  have  come  and  gone. 

Science  has  spanned  the  ocean,  and  sent  thought 
flashing  along  its  wires,  till  time  and  space  are  as 
things  of  naught.  Little  need  the  novelist,  there- 
fore, excuse  the  annihilation  of  ten  years,  — a  decade 
of  transition  and  preparation  for  the  record  of  which 
the  future  of  the  lives  in  which  we  are  interested 
must  be  responsible. 

It  is  an  Italian  night,  and  there  is  a  ball  given  at 
the  American  Legation,  in  Florence. 

The  rush  and  crush  and  glitter  of  balls  are  about 
the  same  everywhere,  but  this  one  was  in  some  ways 
exceptional.  There  was  no  little  national  pride  in 
the  giving  of  it,  and  rather  more  than  usual  national 
expenditure.  Much  space  had  been  secured,  many 
suites  of  rooms  thrown  open,  and  an  unusually  lavish 
display  of  flowers  offered.  Many  Americans  were 
at  that  time  visiting  Florence.  There  were  also 
many  distinguished  foreigners  ;  and  a  very  successful 
portrait  of  an  American  poet  by  an  American  painter 
had  just  been  received,  and  its  exhibition  was  to  be 
one  of  the  attractive  features  of  the  evening. 

Besides,  a  ball   in   a   Florentine   palace,  with  its 


"J^  ASPIRATIONS, 

ample  space,  where  silks  and  laces  can  have  a  chance 
to  be  seen  to  advantage,  gives  the  wearer  of  them  a 
finer  background  than  a  crowded  drawing-room  in 
our  cities. 

Of  course,  the  invitations  had  been  numerous,  and 
a  throng  had  gathered  early.  Among  the  guests 
were  Mr.  Barclay  and  Miss  Morris,  who,  with  an 
English  governess.  Miss  Marchbank,  were  at  this 
time  staying  in  Florence. 

In  the  ten  years,  come  and  gone,  little  Ruth  has 
become  a  young  woman.  She  has  seen  little  of  her 
native  land,  for,  from  the  winter  spent  at  Geneva 
with  Miss  Alden  and  her  nieces,  to  the  present 
spring,  she  has  been  constantly  wandering  with  her 
restless  guardian, — a  winter  here,  a  summer  there; 
school  for  a  time,  then  studying  alone  or  with  the 
temporary  companions  of  a  foreign  watering-place, 
until  Miss  Marchbank  assumed  the  direction  of 
affairs. 

Mr.  Barclay  has  never  been  in  vigorous  health, 
and  has  never  settled  himself  down  to  active  pur- 
suits. Having  acquired  the  habit  of  seeking  balmy 
airs,  he  has  also  acquired  the  habit  of  liking  to 
wander. 

Miss  Marchbank  is  a  counterpoise  to  this  tendency. 
She  prefers  tranquillity,  and  likes  to  consider  herself 
a  fixture.  From  the  day  she  began  with  Ruth,  there 
was  a  marked  difference  in  the  child's  education.  All 
the  loose  or  tangled  threads  were  carefully  pulled  this 
way  and  that,  and  made  into  a  nice,  round,  even  ball, 
with  nothing  of  the  slovenly,  unwound  skein  about 
it.     There  may  have  been  a  tendency  towards  hard- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  ^y 

ness  in  this  method,  but  the  girl  herself  retained 
sufficient  softness  to  diminish  it. 

And  now  here  she  is  at  a  ball, — her  first  one. 
She  has  seen  plenty  of  people,  and  has  many  pleas- 
ant friends ;  but  she  has  viewed  society  from  its  rim, 
watching  the  sheen,  the  iridescent  hues,  the  bubbles, 
with  a  girl's  merry  glance,  but  wisely  restrained  from 
quaffing  the  enticing  cup.  The  time  has,  however, 
come  for  her  to  take  a  sip. 

As  she  enters  the  beautiful  salon  of  an  old  palace, 
surrounded  by  lights  and  pictures  and  flowers,  we 
will  glance  at  her. 

How  can  any  one,  who  has  even  small  charms,  be 
any  thing  but  lovely  at  eighteen  ?  And  in  a  ball- 
dress  even  an  ordinary  girl  is  a  thing  of  beauty. 

"Ruth  is  not  of  the  salvia  splendens  order;  the 
arbutus  is  her  type." 

Some  one  said  this  of  her;  and  some  one  else 
said,  — 

"  You  mean  our  May-flower,  do  you  not .? " 

Yes,  she  is  like  the  New  England  May-flower, 
delicate,  tender,  slight.  Soft  brown  hair,  violet  eyes, 
a  well  rounded  face,  with  a  color  which  comes  and 
goes,  a  wistful  expression  on  the  curving  lips,  and  an 
air  of  unconsciousness.  She  is  all  in  white  muslin, 
prettily  fluted  and  flounced  (for  Mr.  Barclay  likes 
simplicity,  and  allows  no  dictation  from  costumers), 
and  her  ornaments  are  the  silver  filagree  from 
Genoa, — just  a  pendant  from  a  black  velvet  ribbon 
round  her  throat  has  a  few  clustering  pearls.  With- 
out any  marked  style  or  air  of  fashion,  she  yet  has  a 
grace  which  is  very  effective.     But  who  is  this  who 


yS  ASPIRATIONS. 

sweeps  up  to  her  after  the  presentations  are  over, 
and  Miss  Marchbank's  gray  satin  spreads  itself  on  a 
divan  ? 

Who  is  this  brune  in  gauze  and  amber  and  Isabel 
roses,  who  wreathes  two  exquisite  arms  about  her, 
and  kisses  her  in  true  American  freedom,  and,  drag- 
ging her  away  from  guardian  and  gazers  into  a  win- 
dow's near  embrasure,  exclaims  ?  — 

*'  Ruth  Morris !  to  think  that  we  should  meet  at 
last,  and  here  !  '* 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  I  wrote  last.  You  knew 
we  were  here.     Where  is  Grace  ? " 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  here.  Your  last  letter 
never  reached  me  till  we  were  in  London.  Papa 
sent  it  over,  and  you  said  then  that  you  expected  to 
go  to  Germany." 

"  So  we  did ;  but  Miss  Marchbank  persuaded  Mr. 
Barclay  to  stay  here.  She  is  afraid  he  is  beginning 
to  be  homesick,  and  she  won't  cross  the  Atlantic. 
So  she  inveigles  him  into  the  idea  that  I  must  study 
art." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  —  Grace,  come  here.  Aren't  you 
delighted  t  Hasn't  Ruth  blossomed  out  wonderfully } 
—  Now  you  can  be  our  cicerone.  You  must  know  all 
the  churches  by  heart.  Oh  !  isn't  Isola  Bella  lovely, 
ravishing.^  I  am  just  out  of  my  head  with  Italy. — 
Grace,  come  here." 

And  Grace  came.  Even  Grace  looked  pretty  in 
a  fluffy,  graceful  toilette,  glittering  here  and  there 
with  jewels.  But  her  face  wore  a  wearied  expression 
which  contrasted  ill  with  her  attire,  and  she  was 
almost  pettish  in  her  salutation. 


ASPIRATIONS.  79 

"  Dear  me,  Ruth,  you  have  grown !  No  wonder 
you  look  so  fresh :  you  have  an  easy  time.  Mr. 
Barclay  indulges  you  im'mensely,  does  he  not } " 

"  I  suppose  he  does,  Grace.  He  is  very  kind. 
Where  is  Miss  Alden  t  " 

**  Oh,  she  never  goes  to  balls  !  She  sent  us  with 
Mrs.  Jones.  Aunt  is  getting  to  be  a  dragon,  Ruth. 
I  think  she  dragged  us  abroad  for  fear  we  should 
become  entangled  in  some  noose  or  other.  For  my 
part,  I  should  think  it  was  time  to  be  rid  of  us.  I 
hate  travel,  and  aunt  knows  I  hate  it." 

Ruth  was  a  little  shocked  at  the  way  Grace  spoke. 

**  Miss  Alden  used  to  be  quite  as  kind  and  con- 
siderate as  my  guardian." 

**So  she  is  still,"  put  in  May  impetuously.  "Don*t 
mind  what  Grace  says.  She  is  out  of  sorts  —  a  little 
blue." 

**  Not  any  more  than  usual,  I  am  sure.  May.  I 
am  tired  to  death  of  every  thing,  and  of  balls  more 
than  any  thing.  You  would  make  me  come  to  this, 
and  now  what  am  I  to  do  with  myself.? " 

"Enjoy  it,  to  be  sure,"  said  Ruth  lightly.  "There 
are  hosts  of  charming  people  here,  and  there  is  to 
be  a  contadina  dance  in  costume,  the  saltarello  or 
tarantella^  I  don't  know  which,  —  something  very 
pretty.     And  hark  !  is  not  that  music  delicious  t " 

"  Do  you  dance  .-* "  asked  May,  her  agile  foot  tap- 
ping the  floor  impatiently. 

"  No,  Mr.  Barclay  does  not  allow  me  to." 

"How  horrid  !     I  shall  have  to  remonstrate." 

"No,  don't.     I  care  nothing  about  it." 

"  Oh,  what  a  fib  !     Breathes  there  a  girl  with  soul 


So  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

SO  dead,  who  never  to  herself  hath  said,  this  is  my 
favorite  waltz  ? " 

"  Then  I  may  claim  you  for  it,  Miss  May,"  put  in 
a  voice  ;  and  away  whisked  May,  like  Aurora,  trail- 
ing her  mists  behind  her. 

The  crowd  was  thickening,  and  Ruth  had  a  bright 
smile  or  a  word  for  many.  She  had  introduced  two 
or  three  youths  to  Grace,  but  Grace  had  snubbed 
them  all,  and  still  stood  discontentedly  pulling  a  rose 
to  pieces.  Ruth,  sorry  for  her  friend,  whose  mood 
was  so  out  of  tune  with  all  the  brilliancy  about  her, 
refused  several  agreeable  offers  to  survey  the  dancers, 
and  remained  beside  her. 

"  Why,  Grace ! "  she  remonstrated,  as  a  cavalier 
of  imposing  appearance,  making  his  profoundest 
bow,  and  tendering  his  attentions,  was  refused,  "do 
you  know  that  is  the  British  charg^-d' affaires  f  You 
don't  know  what  you  have  lost." 

"Nor  do  I  care,  Ruth.  Aunt  is  shocked  at  my 
indifference  to  society.  She  is  the  veriest  toady  to 
people  of  distinction." 

"Oh,  Grace,  don't  talk  so!  We  nobodies  all  like 
to  see  how  great  people  bear  their  honors.  But,  in 
truth,  that  man  is  delightful  ;  has  seen  much,  been 
everywhere,  and  yet  when  he  dines  with  Mr.  Bar- 
clay, as  he  often  does,  is  just  as  simple  and  nice  as 
anybody  else." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  matter  to  me.  I  suppose  you 
like  all  this  hubbub." 

"To  be  sure  I  do.  Aren't  the  dresses  exquisite.'* 
Look  at  that  de/-h\uQ  satin  and  point-lace,  and  the 
rose  garniture.     Ah,  Americans  know  how  to  dress ! " 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  8 1 

"And  how  to  paint.  Have  you  seen  the  por- 
trait ? "  said  some  one. 

"  No,"  replied  Ruth. 

**  Allow  me,  then,  to  show  it  to  you." 

"  Come,  Grace,"  and  she  presented  the  one  friend 
to  the  other. 

"So  you  think  Americans  know  how  to  paint. 
How  do  you  dare  assert  so  remarkable  a  truth  sur- 
rounded by  the  works  of  Raphael }  "  asked  Ruth. 

Her  friend  was  the  son  of  an  American  sculptor 
living  in  Florence,  but,  though  born  and  bred  in 
Firenza  la  beila,  was  violently  patriotic. 

"I  claim  that  every  thing  which  an  American  at- 
tempts to  do  is  done  well.  Have  you  been  much 
among  the  studios  here  .? " 

"Very  little." 

"  We  must  make  up  a  party  to  visit  them  ;  I  mean 
the  studios  of  our  own  people." 

"  Florentines,  then  }  " 

"  No  ;  Americans.  Ah,  you  want  to  tease  me  ! 
Will  you  care  to  see  some  of  our  aspiring  youths  .^" 

"  To  be  sure.  The  Aldens  will  go  with  us ;  will 
you  not,  Grace  ? " 

"  May  will,  with  pleasure." 

"And  you  too, — ah,  here  is  the  picture." 

There  was  a  reverent  host  of  admirers  about  the 
venerable  head  which  always  commands  admiration, 
and  plenty  of  outspoken  enthusiasm  for  the  artist. 
The  picture  was  hung  excellently,  with  drapery 
specially  arranged,  and  candles  carefully  placed. 
But  in  a  moment,  at  the  ceasing  of  the  wind  in- 
struments and  the  twanging  of  a  guitar,  the  throng 


82  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

surged  away  towards  the  central  apartment,  where  a 
group  of  gayly  dressed  contadini  were  preparing  to 
dance  for  the  benefit  of  the  foreign  visitors. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  scene  ;  the  brilliant  lights, 
the  sheen  and  shimmer  of  silks  and  jewe.ls,  the  peas- 
ants in  their  gay  colors  and  gold  necklaces,  forming 
a  picturesque  foreground  against  the  surrounding 
mass  of  more  conventionally  attired  people,  upon 
whom  had  fallen  the  hush  of  expectation. 

Then  began  the  dance,  which,  "like  all  popular 
dances,  represents  a  courtship  or  love-making,  in 
which  the  lover  is  passionate  and  impetuous  in  his 
advances,  and  the  maid  is  coy,  shy,  or  coquettish  by 
turns." 

The  two  dancers  (for  only  two  perform  it,  the 
others  waiting  to  relieve  them  when  fatigue  obliges 
them  to  pause)  whirled  in  circles  about  each  other, 
snapping  their  fingers,  ringing  the  bells  of  the  tam- 
bourine, and  thrumming  the  guitar.  Their  move- 
ments were  almost  too  violent  for  grace,  though  they 
acted  their  parts  with  sufificient  spirit ;  the  man  ad- 
vancing, the  woman  receding,  now  balancing,  now 
whirling,  keeping  up  a  constantly  amorous  warfare, 
until  utterly  exhausted.  Then  two  more  advanced, 
and  went  through  the  same  actions  even  more  wildly, 
with  more  abandon ;  and  these  two  sang  as  they 
danced.  Then  another  couple  replaced  these,  ending 
with  the  complete  subjugation  of  the  lover,  who 
dropped  on  his  knee  before  his  panting  sweetheart, 
who  triumphantly  beat  her  tambourine  to  announce 
her  victory. 

There  was   great   applause   and  much  praise  be- 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  %l 

Stowed  upon  the  dancers,  who,  their  labors  over, 
withdrew. 

May  came  rushing  up  to  Ruth,  with, — 

"  Was  it  not  pretty,  charming,  delightful  ?  How  I 
wish  I  could  dance  it !  —  Mr.  Barclay,  you  are  an  ogre 
for  not  letting  Ruth  dance." 

She  had  Mr.  Barclay's  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him 
defiantly.     He  only  answered  in  his  quiet  manner,  — 

*'  I  dare  say,  but  Ruth  submits  very  placidly." 

"That's  because  your  tyranny  has  reduced  her  to 
a  state  of  absolute  subjugation." 

"  So  you  like  the  tarantella"  was  his  unmoved 
remark.  "You  should  witness  the  saltarello  danced 
in  the  open  air  in  or  about  Rome,  to  see  it  perfectly 
done.  It  loses  by  being  indoors.  I  think,  too,  there 
is  some  restraint  when  they  have  an  audience  of  this 
sort." 

"  Very  likely.  —  How  did  you  like  it,  Grace  ?  " 

Ruth  had  been  absorbed  in  the  dance  and  enjoyed 
it,  but,  happening  to  glance  at  Grace  Alden,  had 
noticed  her  watching  the  dancers  with  a  painful 
interest,  which,  as  they  ceased,  left  her  pale  and  dis- 
trait e :  so  quickly  turning  towards  May,  she  whis- 
pered, — 

"  Let  her  alone,  she  is  troubled  about  something  ; " 
then  aloud  she  said,  "  Mr.  Barclay,  it  is  proposed 
that  we  visit  some  of  the  studios ;  Mr.  Potter  will 
introduce  us.     Can  we  go  to-morrow  } " 

"  If  you  are  up  in  any  sort  of  time,  I  can  go  ;  but 
my  afternoon  is  engaged.** 

"Then  we  have  only  to  secure  Miss  Marchbank, 
for  of  course  May  will  induce  Miss  Alden  to  go." 


84  ASPIRATIONSi 

"With  two  chaperones  you  can  dispense  with  me, 
I  think." 

"  But  we  want  you,"  said  Ruth  and  May  simulta- 
neously. 

"  Well,  I'll  go  get  you  some  ices  now." 

**  Take  me  with  you,  please  ? "  asked  Grace,  going 
off  to  join  the  matron  under  whose  care  they  had 
come  to  the  ball. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Grace?"  demanded 
Ruth,  as  cosily  ensconced  on  the  same  ottoman,  she 
and  May  ate  their  confections  and  sent  Mr.  Potter 
off  for  more  delights  of  the  same  kind.  The  refresh- 
ments were  not  of  the  light,  Italian  order  only :  there 
was  a  grand  spread  in  true  American  style ;  and  Mr. 
Potter,  finding  the  viands  to  his  taste,  made  his  stay 
long  enough  to  enable  the  girls  to  chatter  confi- 
dentially. 

"  /  think  it's  a  love  affair.  Aunt  says  it  is  all  non- 
sense." 

*'  Really,  do  you  think  so,  May } "  said  Ruth  with  a 
shade  of  awe. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is." 

"  But  why  should  you  be  afraid  ? " 

"Oh,  because!" 

"Really,  you  make  things  clear." 

"  Well,  there's  time  enough  for  Grace.  Why  does 
a  girl  want  to  bother  about  such  things,  when  there's 
so  much  else  to  enjoy }  " 

To  Ruth  this  view  was  inexplicable.  To  love  and 
be  loved  seemed  to  her  the  acme  of  bliss,  which  every 
poem  she  read,  every  song  she  sang,  every  thing 
lovely  in  nature  or  in  art,  confirmed. 


ASPIRATIONS,  '    85 

"  So  much  else  to  enjoy  ? "  she  repeated ;  ''  what 
else  ? " 

"  Why,  a  thousand  things,  —  dancing,  flirting,  rid- 
ing, driving,  travelling,  dressing,  —  eating  even,  when 
you  get  as  good  things  as  these  sweet  biscuit.  What 
are  they  made  of?  —  cream,  jelly,  and  sponge  cake!" 

Ruth  laughed,  a  clear,  silvery  laugh.  A  slender 
fellow  looking  out  at  the  stars  heard  the  sound,  and 
turned.  Surely  he  had  seen  that  face  before.  Yes ; 
as  she  watched  the  dance,  he  had  observed  the  sweet 
purity  of  her  look,  and  her  delicacy  of  color ;  but  he 
turned  from  Ruth  to  her  companion  with  still  more 
interest.  What  a  dashing  beauty  the  clear  bnine  had, 
and  how  well  her  costume  accorded!  The  amber 
beads,  the  yellow  roses,  set  her  off  bewitchingly ;  and 
how  her  eyes  sparkled  !  The  girls  did  not  heed  him, 
and  went  on  talking. 

"And  does  the  possession  of  a  lover  banish  all 
these  delights  } "  asked  Ruth. 

"  Certainly  :  one  then  has  to  be  solemnly  earnest, 
severely  sincere,  —  no  more  fun  after  that.  Don't 
you  see  how  it  affects  Grace  ?  She  is  as  sour  as 
lemonade." 

"  She  seems  unhappy." 

"So  she  is,  critical  and  censorious  and  disagree- 
able. I  wish  aunt  would  let  her  marry,  and  be  done 
with  it." 

*'  You  cruel  girl !  You  never  used  to  allow  any 
one  to  abuse  Grace." 

"  Nor  do  I  now.  It  is  just  because  I  love  her  that 
I  see  her  fatal  mistake,  and  the  flaws  in  her  are  all 
occasioned  by  it." 


S6  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"Fatal  mistake?" 

*'  Yes,  she  is  irretrievably  in  love,  though  aunt 
ignores  it." 

*'  With  whom  ?  May,  quick,  here  comes  Mr.  Potter, 
tell  me,  with  whom  ?  " 

"An  insignificant  clerk,  a  tradesman,  a" — 

The  end  of  her  sentence  was  lost  in  a  profusion  of 
thanks  to  Mr.  Potter  for  the  delicacies  he  was  pilot- 
ing towards  them. 

Then  the  music  began  again,  —  an  entreating 
melody  which  May  could  not  resist,  and  she  was  off 
again  like  thistle-down  ;  while  Ruth  wandered  to  the 
conservatory  with  Mr.  Potter. 

It  was  a  very  jungle  of  perfumes,  roses,  lilies,  and 
violets  pouring  out  their  lives  for  this  one  night's 
pleasure. 

Before  a  bank  of  cut  flowers,  Ruth  paused. 

"Ah,  what  a  slaughter  of  the  innocents!"  she 
said  regretfully. 

The  same  slim  fellow  who  had  been  looking  at  the 
stars  heard  her  exclamation,  and  responded  with  a 
quick  glance  of  sympathy.  Ruth  only  saw  that  his 
dark  eyes  flashed  as  he  passed  her. 

"  How  many  strangers  are  here  to-night ! "  lazily 
drawled  Mr.  Potter. 

"Are  there.-*  I  know  so  few  that  I  cannot  judge." 

"  Yes,  there  are  lots  of  them.  Here  comes  one  of 
the  kind  I  most  dread,  —  a  specimen  of  the  sort  who 
represent  us  all  over  the  Continent,  and  give  us  our 
unenviable  social  reputation." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Potter,  Americans  are  well  thought  of 
everywhere ! " 


ASPIRATIONS.  87 

"For  their  money-spending,  yes,  and  that  is  what 
I  object  to." 

"Yes,  and  for  their  good-nature." 

"  It  would  be  better  if  they  had  less  and  demanded 
more,  —  their  money's  worth,  for  instance." 

Ruth  laughed.  "  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  they 
get  it  or  not,"  and  she  drew  her  muslin  away  from 
the  rose-thorns. 

"  Ah !  girls  can  be  indifferent ;  more  especially 
when  they  are  "  — 

"  What } " 

"  Heiresses." 

"  I  am  not  an  heiress." 

"  Oh,  no !  I  suppose  not,"  said  Mr.  Potter  dubi- 
ously 

"  I  assure  you  I  am  not,"  repeated  Ruth ;  "and,  if 
this  is  the  general  impression,  I  beg  that  you  will 
correct  it." 

Here  the  short,  stout  person  whom  Mr.  Potter  had 
said  was  one  he  dreaded  approached  more  nearly. 
She  was  entirely  clothed  in  black  velvet,  richly 
covered  with  lace.  Her  diamonds  were  prominent, 
and  her  hair  was  a  structure  worthy  of  an  architect. 
She  looked  to  be  forty-five.  She  came  up  to  Mr. 
Potter  without  embarrassment,  and  asked  for  an  in- 
troduction to  Miss  Morris,  in  a  voice  which  had  no 
sweetness  of  modulation,  but  was  not  unpleasantly 
loud  or  strident. 

Ruth  courtesied  distantly  and  wonderingly,  as  Mr. 
Potter  presented  Mrs.  Vedder.  She  did  not  care  to 
know  the  woman,  and  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her 
indifference.     Mr.  Barclay,  himself  reserved,  had  by 


88  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

his  example  taught  Ruth  to  be  so ;  but  she  was  not 
haughty,  and  at  once  had  some  pleasant  little  trifling 
word  for  the  stranger. 

"My  dear,"  was  the  very  unexpected  rejoinder, 
"you  have  forgotten  me.  I  am  an  aunt  of  yours,  —  a 
great-aunt,  I  suppose  I  must  call  myself.  Your  mother, 
Ruth,  was  my  niece.  And  how  you  have  grown,  to  be 
sure !  The  last  time  I  saw  you,  you  were  only  so 
high,"  —  measuring  with  her  hand  about  three  feet 
from  the  floor,  "a  little,  thin,  pale  girl ;  and  now  you 
are —  Well,  'praise  to  the  face  is  open  disgrace.'  I 
never  flatter  people  ;  it's  not  my  way." 

Ruth  gazed  at  the  woman,  and  spoke  not  a  word. 

Could  this  be  a  relation  of  hers,  this  coarse,  com- 
mon woman,  whose  manner  and  voice  were  so  dis- 
tasteful }  Yet,  as  she  gazed,  the  face  grew  less  un- 
familiar. Where  had  she  seen  it }  From  the  depths 
of  her  memory  came  a  vision  of  this  face,  associated 
with  dull,  dark  days  of  childish  sorrow.  The  very 
smell  of  crape  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  heavy 
folds  of  the  woman's  velvet  gown. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me  at  all,  Ruth  } "  she  que- 
ried, "  your  aunt  Abby  Vedder }  " 

"  No,"  said  Ruth,  faltering,  —  "  and  yet "  — 

"  Now,  just  try  and  think.  It  was  summertime, 
at  the  funeral  "  — 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  said  Ruth  quickly.  "  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber.    How  do  you  do,  aunt,  Mrs.  Vedder  }  " 

Mr.  Potter  seeing  that  something  was  impending, 
and  that  Ruth  deprecated  more  explanations,  here 
interposed  kindly,  — 

"  You  will  have  to  postpone  reminiscences,  Mrs. 


ASPIRATIONS.  89 

Vedder,  for  I  must  just  now  take  Miss  Morris  to  Miss 
Marchbank.  She  will  be  delighted  to  renew  your 
acquaintance,  I  have  no  doubt,  on  some  future  occa- 
sion ; "  and  he  offered  Ruth  his  arm,  which  she  took 
eagerly,  only  halting  a  moment,  as  she  saw  Mrs. 
Vedder's  crestfallen  look,  to  say  kindly,  — 

**  You  must  send  me  your  card,  please.  —  She  is 
an  aunt  of  mine,  I  really  believe,"  was  her  honest 
avowal  to  Mr.  Potter,  whose  comforting  reply  was, 
**  Relations  have  an  inexpressibly  stupid  way  of  turn- 
ing up  when  they're  not  wanted  ; "  and  then  they 
joined  Miss  Marchbank,  who  was  yawning  behind 
her  fan. 

In  another  half  hour  the  ball  was  over  for  Ruth,  — 
her  first  ball,  —  and  she  had  come  away  with  a  con- 
fused sound  of  trailing  silks  on  marble  floors,  whirl- 
ing waltzes,  buzzing  voices,  sweet  reed-instruments, 
and  a  general  depression  of  spirits  ;  for  over  all  other 
sights  and  sounds  came  the  apparition  of  the  woman 
in  black  velvet,  and  the  commonplace  voice  saying, 
"  I  am  your  aunt  Abby  Vedder." 

I  wonder  if  balls  do  not  oftener  depress  than  ele- 
vate. Is  there  not  always  some  sting  of  disappoint- 
ment, some  ache  of  unsatisfied  vanity  t  And  yet, 
Ruth  had  nothing  of  these  to  annoy  her.  She  was 
artless,  and  disposed  to  enjoy  every  thing  that  was 
put  before  her.  But  in  spite  of  the  charms  of  the 
evening,  the  real  pleasure  of  which  she  had  partaken, 
there  was  a  faint  regret. 


QO  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Slowly,  Ruth,  slowly,"  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  frescoed  room,  near  a  bal- 
cony filled  with  growing  plants,  and  the  soft,  Italian 
sunshine  bathed  them  in  its  light.  Far  away  the 
hills  were  to  be  seen  in  waving  outline  again«t  a 
clear  blue  sky ;  nearer  a  fountain  rippled  and  gushed 
in  its  marble  basin.  Ruth  was  reading  aloud  (as  she 
did  for  an  hour  every  day)  Ruskin's  "  Remarks  on 
the  Nineteenth  Psalm,"  in  which  are  these  words :  — 

"The  Bible  is,  indeed,  a  deep  book,  when  depth  is 
required  ;  that  is  to  say,  for  deep  people.  But  it  is 
not  intended  particularly  for  profound  persons  ;  on 
the  contrary,  much  more  for  simple  and  shallow  per- 
sons. And  therefore  the  first,  and  generally  the 
main  and  leading,  idea  of  the  Bible  is  on  its  surface, 
written  in  plainest  possible  Greek,  Hebrew,  or  Eng- 
lish, needing  no  penetration  nor  amplification,  need- 
ing nothing  but  what  we  all  might  give, —  attention. 

"  But  this,  which  is  in  every  one's  power,  and  is 
the  only  thing  which  God  wants,  is  just  the  last 
thing  any  one  will  give  him." 

Ruth  stopped. 

"  How  is  it  possible  for  any  one  less  gifted  than 
Mr.  Ruskin  to  give  the  attention  which  he  here  goes 


ASPIRATIONS.  91 

on  to  describe  ?  For  instance,  I  suppose  he  under- 
stands Greek  and  Hebrew  enough  to  get  at  the  exact 
meaning  of  each  word." 

"  Yes,  very  probably  ;  but  go  on,  and  see  what  else 
he  adds." 

•*  We  are  delighted  to  ramble  away  into  day-dreams ; 
to  repeat  pet  verses  from  other  places,  suggested  by 
chance  words ;  to  snap  at  an  expression  which  suits 
our  own  particular  views ;  or  to  dig  up  a  meaning 
from  under  a  verse,  which  we  should  be  amiably 
grieved  to  think  any  human  being  had  been  so  happy 
as  to  find  before.  But  the  plain,  intended,  immedi- 
ate, fruitful  meaning,  which  every  one  ought  to  find 
always,  and  especially  that  which  depends  on  our  see- 
ing the  relation  of  the  verse  to  those  near  it,  and 
getting  the  force  of  the  whole  passage,  in  due  rela- 
tion,—  this  sort  of  significance  we  do  not  look  for; 
it  being,  truly,  not  to  be  discovered,  unless  we  really 
attend  to  what  is  said,  instead  of  to  our  own  feelings." 

**  That  demands  study,"  said  Ruth. 

"Of  course,"  responded  Mr.  Barclay.  "f^^ 

Ruth  resumed  her  reading ;  but  again  Mr.  Barclay   - 
had  to  check  her  rapidity,  at  which  she  closed  the 
book  and  said,  — 

"  My  mind  wanders  so  that  I  have  lost  the  thread 
of  meaning.  I  was  thinking  how  difficult  it  is  to 
apply  Bible  teachings  to  every-day  life,  not  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  read  them  properly." 

"  Has  the  ball  had  this  influence  } " 

"  Not  exactly,  and  yet  something  happened  there 
which  may  have  started  my  thoughts  in  this  direc- 
tion." 


92  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"What  was  it?** 

"  A  Mrs.  Vedder  was  introduced  to  me,  who  calls 
herself  my  aunt." 

''  Humph  !  "  said  Mr.  Barclay.  "You  did  not  tell 
me  of  this  last  night." 

"  No,  I  had  no  opportunity ;  but  I  did  not  like  her. 
I  was  annoyed  that  she  spoke  to  me,  and  I  think  I 
was  rude  to  her." 

"  And  all  that  was  contrary  to  Bible  teaching  }  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

Ruth  had  long  ago  learned  the  ease  of  confession, 
and  always  opened  her  heart  to  her  guardian,  whose 
worldly  wisdom  was  sometimes  sorely  puzzled  just 
what  to  advise.  Sometimes  she  was  the  teacher, 
as  the  young,  the  pure,  and  the  unworldly  can  be. 

Mr.  Barclay  enjoyed  these  confidences,  and  never 
chilled  them  by  any  unresponsiveness. 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  a  good  judge  of  your  own 
actions,  my  dear.     I  doubt  if  you  were  rude." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  was." 
:     "  Sometimes  we  are  so  placed  that  we  have  to  de- 
'fend  ourselves  by  a  little  hardness  of  conduct." 

"  That  is  not  the  law  of  love." 

"It  is  expediency,  I  admit." 

Ruth  looked  perplexed.     "  I  don't  think  I  like  it." 

"You  are  a  little  Puritan,  my  dear.  Don't  lay  too 
much  stress  on  small  matters:  there  is  danger  of 
forgetting  the  large  ones." 

Ruth  made  no  reply.  She  submitted  meekly  to 
her  guardian's  wisdom.     She  was  very  docile. 

A  plate  of  polished  umber  chestnuts  was  on  the 
table.     Mr.    Barclay   began   opening   them,   saying. 


ASPIRATIONS.  93 

"  So  an  aunt  has  turned  up  way  over  here  in  Italy. 
I  thought  you  were  safe  from  any  approaches  of  that 
sort  on  this  side  of  the  ocean." 

"Who  is  she,  Mr.  Barclay }     Do  you  know  her } " 

"  I  do  not  know  her.  I  suppose  she  must  be  a  sis- 
ter of  Mr.  Boggs." 

"  Oh  ! "  ejaculated  Ruth  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"  You  have  no  devoted  attachment  for  him,  I 
believe  ? " 

"  No,  indeed ! " 

"  How  about  the  law  of  love  now,  Ruth  } " 

"  But,  Mr.  Barclay,  he  was  rude  and  unkind  to  my 
father." 

"  Perhaps  he  did  not  mean  to  be ;  it  was  only  his 
coarser  nature  clashing  against  the  finer  qualities  of 
your  father's." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

A  card  was  here  brought  in. 

"  Is  the  lady  waiting } "  asked  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  No  ;  it  was  delivered  at  the  door." 

Mr.  Barclay  handed  it  to  Ruth. 

On  it  was  inscribed  :  — 

"  Mrs.  Vedder.     Casa  Doiia.      Wednesdays. 

"  To-day  is  Tuesday ;  to-morrow  I  will  go  see  this 
aunt  of  yours." 

"And  I  too,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"  You  are  not  obliged  to." 

"  But  I  would  rather." 

"As  a  penance.'* " 

"The  ' amende  honorable'  instead." 

Here  Miss  Marchbank  entered,  all  ready  for  the 
morning  excursion. 


94  ASPIRATIONS. 

Miss  Marchbank  was  a  thoroughly  practical  per- 
son ;  always  punctual,  always  suitably  dressed,  always 
attentive  to  proprieties.  She  was  scrupulous  in  ap- 
pearance this  morning,  in  black  silk,  lavender  gloves, 
and  a  bonnet  that  matched  her  gray  hair. 

"  Not  ready,  Ruth  ?  Ah,  my  dear  child,  how  shall  I 
ever  teach  you  to  be  on  time  ?  "  and  out  popped  her 
watch. 

"  We  have  been  a  little  discursive  in  our  reading 
to-day,  Miss  Marchbank,"  apologized  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  I  am  afraid  so ;  you  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late,"  and  the  watch  was  pocketed  again  with  a  Httle 
click  of  the  case. 

"  I  can  slip  on  my  things  in  a  moment,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Oh,  no !  don't  do  that ;  you  will  not  be  tidy. 
Change  your  whole  apparel." 

In  another  quarter  of  an  hour  Ruth  stood  equipped, 
—  no  daisy  could  have  been  daintier,  —  in  two  or 
three  shades  of  brown,  with  some  fresh  field  flowers 
at  her  waist.  They  drove  to  Miss  Alden's  hotel,  and 
found  her  party  ready. 

In  spite  of  being  ten  years  older.  Miss  Alden  wore 
a  round  hat,  which  so  displeased  Miss  Marchbank 
that  she  could  hardly  be  polite. 

"How  shocking  is  such  an  affectation  of  youth, 
my  dear  Ruth ! "  she  whispered,  when  the  chance 
availed. 

Ruth  smiled,  and  said,  — 

"  Ah !  if  you  knew  her,  you  would  not  be  so 
vexed." 

There  was  a  little  flutter  of  caresses,  and  kind  in- 
quiries, and  salutations,  and  comparison  of   experi- 


ASPIRATIONS.  95 

ences ;  and,  this  interchange  over,  they  started  on 
their  studio  inspection  with  Mr.  Potter. 

I  do  not  propose  to  follow  them.  Miss  Alden  was 
bland,  Miss  Marchbank  critical,  Mr.  Barclay  amused, 
Grace  Alden  indifferent,  May  as  bright  and  bubbling 
as  champagne,  and  Ruth  contemplative.  The  artists 
received  them  cordially,  and  made  a  good  display  of 
their  works.  Labor  of  months  was  quickly  discussed 
in  as  many  moments.  In  the  home  of  art  one  be- 
comes either  very  reverent  or  very  indifferent. 

In  one  large  room  of  cloister-like  stillness,  where 
several  youths  were  at  their  easels,  and  where  several 
fine  frescoes  impressed  the  visitor,  a  young  man,  who 
had  seen  the  gay  party  entering,  turned  hastily  to- 
wards his  canvas,  and  remained  absorbed  until  they 
had  completed  their  survey.  He  was  not  more  than 
twenty-three,  and,  though  among  Americans,  bore 
unmistakable  marks  of  foreign  parentage.  The  olive 
tint  of  his  oval  face,  the  dark,  flashing  eye,  and  the 
close  curling  hair  were  not  Yankee  in  their  origin ; 
but  when  he  spoke,  as  he  did  soon  after,  his  English 
was  undefiled. 

"  Why  did  you  work  so  zealously  }  The  girls  were 
pretty,  and  deserving  of  attention,"  asked  a  student. 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  them  last  night." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  being  civil  to-day.  Besides, 
Mr.  Barclay  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  good  buyer  ; 
he  is  said  to  be  choosing  works  of  art  to  carry  home." 

"  Indeed  ;  when  does  he  go  ? " 

"  Ah  !  that  I  know  nothing  of.  But  I  see  that  you 
now  regret  your  inattention  :  filthy  lucre  has  greater 
weight  with  you  than  I  supposed." 


96  ASPIRATIONS. 

"As  if  you  had  not  purposely  made  mention  of 
that  which  was  most  pleasing  to  yourself." 

"  No,  no !  I  deny  it.  But  see,  here  is  a  fan  that 
one  of  them  dropped  ;  will  you  just  run  out  and 
return  it }     I  can't  leave  this  wet  bit  of  color." 

"  Give  it  to  me,  if  you  choose ;  but  I'll  not  go  after 
them  now." 

"  How  will  they  get  it }  " 

**  I  know  Mr.  Barclay.  I  will  return  it  at  my  con- 
venience." 

*•  You  know  Mr.  Barclay }  Why  the  deuce,  then, 
didn't  you  speak  to  him  1 " 

**  I  was  not  ready  to." 

Meantime,  our  party  proceeded  to  luncheon.  Miss 
Alden  had  secured  their  presence  for  a  very  pretty 
festa,  and  they  were  all  weary  enough  to  enjoy  it  in 
an  unceremonious  manner. 

"  What  a  bore  all  this  sight-seeing  is  !  "  exclaimed 
Grace  Alden  to  Ruth,  as  she  stripped  a  fig  of  its 
purplish-green  coat. 

Ruth  answered  quietly,  "  I  am  sorry  you  think  so ; 
perhaps  the  churches  will  suit  you  better." 

"No;  they're  all  mummery  and  moonshine." 

"  Pardon,  Grace.  They  are  to  those  who  have  no 
religious  sentiment ;  but  to  others  they  are  the  reve- 
lation of  the  Divine." 

"  Ruth !  Oh,  but  I  suppose  you  mean  Roman 
Catholics !" 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  mean  those  who 
see  in  these  beautiful  structures  the  aspirations  of 
humanity  after  all  that  is  pure  and  beautiful  and 
spiritual." 


ASPIRATIONS.  97 

Grace  laughed  thinly,  a  sharp,  satirical  little  laugh. 

"  What  a  little  saint  you  are  becoming,  Ruth  !  Mr. 
Barclay  will  have  to  be  careful,  or  his  destined  bride 
may  enter  a  nunnery." 

Ruth  too  had  a  fig  in  her  fingers,  which  she  now 
dropped  ;  and  turning  with  an  astonished  and  alarmed 
expression  towards  her  companion,  her  color  rising, 
she  said,  — 

"  I  cannot  hear  such  words,  Grace.  I  cannot  im- 
agine why  you  wish  to  offend  me." 

**  Oh,  I'll  take  it  all  back ! "  said  Grace  carelessly, 
seeing  the  vivid  color,  and  the  look  of  mingled  anger 
and  pain  in  Ruth's  gentle  eyes.  "But  you  know  it's 
not  an  unnatural  supposition." 

*'  It  seems  to  me  very  unnatural  and  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Grace — very  unrefined." 

"It's  the  way  of  the  world:  so  don't  be  a  little 
prig,  Ruth." 

Ruth  had  been  so  sorry  for  Grace,  so  eager  to 
sympathize  and  do  a  friend's  deed  for  what  she  sup- 
posed to  be  real  suffering,  that  to  be  thus  wounded 
in  return  seemed  doubly  hard  to  endure.  She 
turned  from  her  now,  for  they  were  scattered  about 
the  room  at  small  tables,  and  quickly  sought  the  cor- 
ner where  Miss  Marchbank  and  Miss  Alden  were 
eating  salad,  and  discussing  mosaics.  May  was  hav- 
ing a  tilt  with  Mr.  Barclay,  who  liked  her  vivacity. 
Mr.  Potter  was  skimming  the  cream  on  all  sides,  but 
seeing  Grace  alone  went  up  to  her.  Her  tongue  had 
certainly  been  tasting  bitter  herbs,  for  she  put  him 
out  of  temper  tooj  and  so  he  sauntered  back  to 
Ruth. 


98  ASPIRATIONS, 

"  If  your  friend  were  a  little  older,  I  should  think 
her  a  disappointed  old  maid  ;  but  "  — 

"What's  that  you  say  about  old  maids,  Mr.  Pot- 
ter ? "  said  Miss  Alden.  "  Have  a  care,  or  Miss 
Marchbank  and  I  will  arm  for  battle.** 

"  I  have  no  weapons  that  can  match  yours,  so  I'll 
retreat  behind  Miss  Morris's  intrenchments.  We  are 
not  going  to  say  another  word  about  old  maids  or 
young  ones  either ;  we  are  going  to  talk  about  art. 
—  What  were  your  general  impressions.  Miss  Ruth, 
after  all  we  saw  this  morning  t  " 

"  They  were  vague  and  varied,  Mr.  Potter." 

"  You  saw  too  much  }  " 

"  No ;  but  after  the  galleries,  the  Angelicos  and 
Raphaels,  the  Titians  and  the  Del  Sartos,  modern 
art  seems  so  timid,  so  crude,  so  young.'* 

"  I  should  say  there  was  nothing  vague  in  that  im- 
pression ;  it  is  remarkably  distinct,  and  if  I  were  an 
artist  I  should  feel  squelched." 

"  Then  I  should  have  erred  in  speaking,  for  it  was. 
but  half  my  thought :  while  their  efforts  seem  timid, 
they  yet  excite  my  admiration  by  their  industry  and 
hopefulness." 

"  Young  Marsh  is  making  a  name  for  himself.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  saw  him ;  he  was  in  the  last 
atelier  we  visited." 

"Yes,**  said  Ruth  indifferently.  "What  does  he 
paint.?'* 

"A  little  of  every  thing.  I  don't  think  he  has 
quite  settled  down  to  any  one  branch.  He  comes 
out  occasionally  with  a  strong  head  or  portrait,  then 
again  landscape  seems  to  attract  him.      He  is  not 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  99 

as  well  known  as  his  pictures ;  he  seems  to  shun 
society." 

"  I  should  think  one  would  have  to,  or  his  work 
would  suffer." 

"  He  calls  himself  an  American,  but  he  looks  two- 
thirds  Italian." 

"What  did  you  say  was  his  name.?"  said  Ruth, 
striving  to  rouse  herself  to  be  interested,  for  art  in 
its  essence  and  abstract  influence  was  more  to  her 
than  the  artist ;  and  yet  she  wanted  to  forget  the 
stinging  pain  of  Grace  Alden's  speech.  "  What  was 
his  name .'' " 

"Marsh  —  A.  L.  Marsh.  His  name  is  wholly  out 
of  keeping  with  his  appearance." 

"  Who  is  that  you  are  talking  of  t "  queried  Mr. 
Barclay. 

"A  compatriot,  an  artist,  and  a  genius  by  the 
very  plain  patronymic  of  Marsh,"  responded  Mr. 
Potter. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  here  ? " 

"  Really,  I  don't  know,  — two  or  three  winters.  He 
keeps  himself  very  much  to  himself." 

"  Can  it  be  Lillo,  I  wonder ! "  said  Mr.  Barclay  to 
Ruth. 

"  Lillo !  Why,  I  never  thought  of  him  as  any  thing 
but  a  boy !  Marsh  was  his  name,  to  be  sure ;  but 
would  he  not  have  recognized  us  .?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  so  many  years  have  elapsed ;  but 
I  must  follow  this  scent,  and  see  for  myself  if  we 
have  unearthed  him.  Come,  we  must  make  our 
adieux. — We  owe  you  many  thanks,  Mr.  Potter. — 
And,  Miss  Alden,  we  must  compare  programmes,  that 


I OO  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

our  young  people  may  be  together  as  much  as  possi- 
ble.    It  quite  revives  old  times." 

"  So  it  does,  Frank,  so  it  does ;  and  you  are  not  a 
day  older  than  when  my  mischievous  May  ran  away, 
and  gave  me  such  a  fright  and  you  such  a  wetting, 
do  you  remember  ?  and  that  talented  fisher-boy  swam 
after  you." 

*'Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"We  are  just  speaking  of  him.  I  think  perhaps  he 
has  turned  up  again." 

"  Really,  how  romantic !  " 

"Yes." 

Here  Miss  Marchbank,  who  was  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  these  reminiscences,  made  so  strenuous 
an  effort  that  they  positively  did  go ;  but  not  before 
Grace  made  another  languid  attempt  to  pacify  Ruth, 
which  Ruth  ignored. 

It  may  have  seemed  unforgiving  in  Ruth  when  she 
coolly  put  aside  Grace  Alden's  apologetic  caress,  but 
she  justified  herself  by  thinking  that  it  would  have 
been  hypocrisy  had  she  consented  to  it.  Her  self- 
extenuation  had  the  basis  of  honesty.  She  was  hurt 
and  displeased ;  but  though  Grace  had  made  her 
angry,  she  really  tried  to  excuse  the  girl,  as  she 
always  did  when  any  one  offended  her.  Never  before 
had  Mr.  Barclay  been  spoken  of  as  Grace  spoke  of 
him,  and  certainly  never  before  had  the  possibility  of 
a  different  relationship  presented  itself  to  Ruth.  Not 
only  was  she  hurt,  but  she  was  indignant ;  and  the 
longer  she  dwelt  upon  the  matter,  the  more  involved 
became  her  thoughts. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  other  people  regarded 


ASPIRATIONS.         ,/  iOI 

them  in  this  light  ?  Was  every  one '  so '  stupid'/  'so' 
commonplace,  as  to  think  that  there  could  be  no 
affection  between  two  people  except  one  that  ended 
in  matrimony  ?  Was  there  never  a  parental  or  fra- 
ternal relation  without  kinship  ?  Did  she  not  prove 
daily- that  she  bore  a  daughter's  love  to  the  man  who 
had  taken  her,  a  friendless  little  orphan,  from  her 
dying  father  ?  Her  very  unconsciousness  that  there 
could  be  any  other  state  of  affairs  was  witness  to  its 
absurdity.  But  now  she  could  no  longer  be  uncon- 
scious. And  she  had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  un- 
burden herself.  Always  she  had  gone  to  Mr.  Barclay 
with  her  griefs.  This  was  something  not  to  be 
spoken  of,  not  to  be  thought  of ;  and  so  she  cried  a 
few  vexatious  tears,  and  went  down  to  Miss  March- 
bank  for  an  hour's  study,  striving  hard  to  forget  that 
distasteful  insinuation. 

Mr.  Barclay  came  home  late  from  his  engagement 
and  his  drive  on  the  Casino,  to  find  Miss  Marchbank 
on  a  sofa  asleep,  and  Ruth  on  the  balcony  watching 
the  sunlight  fading  over  the  hills  in  all  the  soft 
gradations  of  color  peculiar  to  an  Italian  sky.  She 
did  not  greet  him  with  her  usual  kiss  and  merry  wel- 
come, but  stood  mutely  waiting  for  the  first  word 
from  him. 

"Tired,  little  Ruth .?"  said  he,  coming  to  her  and 
putting  his  arm  around  her. 

She  almost  shrank  away  from  him,  and  said 
coldly,  — 

**  No,  I  am  not  tired.     Will  you  have  tea } " 

"Yes,  dear  child.  But  you  are  tired,  and  your 
hands   are   too   cool ;   we  mustn't  run   any   risk   of 


102  ASPIRATIONS. 

malaria.  Come  in  and  sit  down  beside  me.  I  think 
I  have  found  our  old  friend  Lillo." 

She  overcame  her  coldness  and  embarrassment 
with  an  effort,  calling  herself  a  simpleton  and  an 
ingrate,  and,  drawing  a  cushion  beside  him,  laid  her 
head  on  his  knee,  vowing  that  those  hateful  words 
should  not  control  her. 

Then  he  told  her  where  he  had  been,  and  the  in- 
quiries he  had  made,  and  whom  he  had  met,  and 
what  he  had  seen,  and  how  he  had  left  a  note  for  Mr. 
Marsh  ;  and  when  she  had  heard  it  all  she  rang  for 
the  tea,  which  she  never  allowed  any  one  else  to  brew 
for  him,  and  wakened  Miss  Marchbank,  who  always 
protested  that  she  had  not  been  asleep,  but  had  only 
"just  lost  herself"  a  moment,  and  had  heard  every 
word  that  had  been  spoken. 


ASPIRATIONS,  103 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Mr.  Barclay,  somewhat  ennuy^  with  travel  and 
idleness,  had  lately  become  much  interested  in  the 
founding  of  Protestant  schools  in  Italy.  Without 
taking  any  active  part  in  the  immediate  conduct  or 
control  of  these  institutions,  he  had  used  his  influ- 
ence for  them  by  interesting  others,  by  writing  home 
concerning  them,  and  by  raising  money.  He  had 
thus  been  very  useful,  aud  had  drawn  to  him  those 
who  were  similarly  interested,  as  well  as  those  who 
were  simply  curious  to  watch  the  experiment.  But 
he  would  not  allow  Ruth  to  even  have  a  class  in  a  Sun- 
day school,  eagerly  as  she  desired  it.  To  all  her  argu- 
ments he  opposed  the  conclusive  one,  that,  were  he 
to  allow  her  the  privilege  she  asked,  his  labors  would 
then  become  of  negative  value ;  for  the  police  would 
soon  contrive  to  make  his  residence  uncomfortable, 
and,  not  being  combative  by  nature,  they  would  worry 
him  into  a  withdrawal  of  all  effort.  But  Ruth's  mis- 
sionary spirit  had  been  aroused,  and,  though  acquies- 
cing to  the  necessities  of  the  case,  her  mind  was  not 
at  rest.  She  was  longing  for  an  opportunity  to  do 
good  in  some  plain,  practical  way  to  which  her  powers 
might  be  equal.  She  did  not  give  utterance  to  this 
longing ;  on  the  contrary,  so  fearful  was  she  of  mis- 


1 04  ASPIRA  TIONS, 

interpretation  that  she  did  not  even  venture  to  make 
it  known  to  Miss  Marchbank,  who,  however,  had 
been  instrumental  in  fostering  it,  by  her  own  ac- 
counts of  life  in  English  towns,  where  she,  as  well 
as  her  friends,  had  done  so  much  for  the  poor,  the 
sick,  and  the  needy.  So  Ruth  smothered  her  wishes, 
and  watched  with  envy  the  Sisters  of  Charity  on 
their  rounds,  the  Brethren  of  the  Misericordia,  and 
the  pale,  patient  nuns,  whose  lives  were  spent  in 
deeds  of  mercy.  She  had  not  become  infatuated 
with  Roman  Catholicism ;  neither  did  she  ignore 
much  that  impressed  her  as  useful  and  beautiful  in 
the  system.  She  had  not  been  educated  to  the  Puri- 
tan horror  of  its  principles ;  though  she  had  been 
taught  to  remember,  with  a  salutary  propriety,  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  But  living,  as  she 
had  done,  so  much  abroad,  the  sharp  edge  of  her 
Protestantism  had  become  dulled  enough  to  allow  her 
to  pray  even  more  devoutly  in  a  cathedral  than  she 
would  have  done  in  a  conventicle.  She  thus  was 
ripe  for  a  movement  of  some  sort. 

"Well,  Ruth;"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  the  day  after 
their  inspection  of  the  studios,  "shall  we  pay  that 
visit  to  the  Casa  Doria .? " 

"  I  suppose  we  must,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"  Or  do  you  prefer  the  dentist's  ? " 

"  If  the  choice  were  given  me,  I  think  the  one 
would  be  preferable  to  the  other." 

"  Your  aunt  would  be  flattered,  would  she  not } " 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  matter  to  her.  That  is  the 
worst  of  our  petty  sacrifices  :  nobody  cares  really  that 
we  make  them." 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  105 

"  Then  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  better." 

They  were  in  their  neat  little  English  phaeton  in 
a  moment,  and  went  bowling  along  to  their  destina- 
tion. They  passed  a  somewhat  gorgeous  equipage, 
from  which  a  gloomy,  red-faced  woman  bowed  haugh- 
tily. 

"That  is  one  of  my  most  energetic  co-laborers,'* 
said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  Who  may  she  be  ? "  asked  Ruth. 

"The  Duchess  of  Stickingham,  a  very  sensible, 
good  woman." 

"  She  looks  cross,  and  as  if  her  roast  beef  were  too 
rare." 

"  Her  looks  belie  her.  I  do  not  believe  a  person 
of  simpler  habits  is  to  be  found." 

Again  they  passed  a  showy  turn-out,  but  this  time 
a  pale  face  of  great  beauty  saluted  them. 

"  That  is  another  ardent  worker,"  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  She  is  American,  I  am  sure,"  exclaimed  Ruth. 

"You  are  right.  Her  zeal  only  equals  her  love  of 
splendor  and  show.  She  gives  as  generously  as  she 
spends,  whether  for  schools  or  for  laces." 

"  Why  do  I  not  meet  these  people,  Mr.  Barclay  ? " 
suddenly  asked  Ruth. 

"  I  prefer  to  have  you  all  to  myself,"  said  Mr.  Bar- 
clay lightly,  little  thinking  of  his  words,  and  in  truth 
regarding  Ruth  as  too  young  yet  to  be  generally  in- 
troduced, having  even  allowed  her  to  go  to  the  ball 
with  reluctance.  His  words  would  have  been  taken 
with  the  same  lightness,  but  for  Grace  Alden's  un- 
happy suggestion.  Now  they  made  Ruth  grave  and 
uncomfortable  and  embarrassed ;  but  also  so  angry 


1 06  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

with  herself,  that  she  could  have  cried.  The  Casa 
Doria  —  the  hotel  where  Mrs.  Vedder  was  staying  — 
was  before  them.  It  was  a  gloomy-looking  structure, 
old,  sombre,  and  not  very  clean.  They  were  ushered 
into  a  small  efitresol,  and  then  a  maid  came  to  con- 
duct them  up  a  broad  flight  of  stone  steps.  She  was 
Irish  and  untidy,  and  very  much  overdressed  for  her 
station.     Opening  a  door,  she  said,  — 

**  Will  yees  plaze  to  walk  in }  Mrs.  Vedder's  not 
well." 

They  walked  into  a  high-ceiled  apartment,  where 
Cupids  were  dancing  and  wreathing  flowers,  to  find 
Mrs.  Vedder  upon  a  lounge.  She  was  still  clothed 
in  her  pall-like  velvet,  —  only  it  was  cut  to  conceal 
rather  than  to  uncover  her  charms,  — and  over  it  was 
wound  a  coarse-looking  shawl.  Her  tresses  were 
dishevelled,  and  the  braids,  awry  from  lying  down 
upon  them,  gave  a  comical  aspect  to  a  face  which  was 
not  devoid  of  good  looks. 

She  rose  at  once,  in  opposition  to  Mr.  Barclay's 
request  that  she  should  not  do  so,  and  was  profuse 
in  her  welcome. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  so  tired  of  being  alone.  My  sons  leave 
me  to  myself,  and  I  don't  speak  French  or  Italian, 
and  I  hate  the  horrid  cookery  of  the  Continent ;  and 
I  am  not  well,  and  it  makes  me  so  homesick." 

Her  very  eagerness  was  repulsive  to  the  quiet 
Ruth,  but  at  the  same  time  she  began  to  pity  this 
relative. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here,  and  why  did  you 
leave  home  .'* "  asked  Ruth. 


ASPIRATIONS.  107 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  away  ever  so  long !  My  sons 
wanted  to  travel,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  it ;  but 
I  don't.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  Ah,  you  care  for  the  things  that  I  don't  know 
any  thing  about !  I  try  to  get  up  an  interest  in  the 
pictures  and  statues ;  but,  the  truth  is,  I  don't  care 
for  them.  When  they  are  all  undressed,  they  make 
me  ashamed  ;  and  when  they  ain't,  I  can't  make  them 
out,  unless  I  read  the  guide-books." 

She  was  certainly  honest,  and  her  hearers  smiled, 
as  she  hurried  on  in  her  talk,  as  if  afraid  they  would 
go  before  she  could  finish  all  she  had  to  say. 

"  Now,  my  sons  have  had  education,  and  know  all 
about  the  classical  antiquities,  as  they  call  them  ;  but 
I  might  as  well  be  in  Egypt,  for  all  I  can  under- 
stand." 

"And  your  sons  leave  you  to  yourself,  I  under- 
stood you  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  Yes.  I  s'pose  its  natural.  Young  people  are 
eager  to  see  and  hear  every  thing  that's  going,  and 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  drawback  to  them.  That's  the 
way  I  came  to  go  to  the  ball  at  the  Legation.  I  never 
go  to  balls,  never;  but,  just  to  please  the  boys,  I 
dressed  up  and  went,  and  took  cold,  —  got  overheated, 
stood  in  a  draught,  —  and  all  the  queer,  foreign  doctor 
gives  me  is  lemonade.  Bridget,  the  girl  you  saw,  is 
the  only  creature  I've  got  to  talk  to.  She  came  over 
with  me.  — And  so  you  are  really  Ruth  Morris.  You 
look  like  your  mother.  —  She  was  a  pretty  woman, 
Mr.  Barclay,  wasn't  she  }  " 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Vedder." 


1 08  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"  And  Dick  was  a  queer  chap.  Though  I  was  your 
mother's  aunt,  Ruth,  I  was  not  more  than  a  year  or 
two  older,  being  the  youngest  of  a  large  family ;  and 
your  mother's  mother,  my  oldest  sister, — her  name 
was  Margaretta,  —  she  died  soon  after  your  mother 
was  born.  Your  mother  was  Ruth,  the  same  name  as 
your  own  ;  and  until  she  went  off  to  her  grandfather's, 
and  then  to  school,  we  were  playmates.  She  was  a 
quiet  child  and  very  different  from  me ;  but  we  were 
fond  of  each  other,  for  all  that,  and  when  she  was 
sent  for  I  cried  all  night  long.  We  used  to  meet  as 
schoolgirls ;  but  I  never  cared  to  study,  and  Ruth 
was  always  talking  about  something  I  didn't  under- 
stand. Then  she  married  your  father,  and  none  of 
our  family  approved  of  that :  so  they  didn't  care  to 
be  intimate,  and  I  don't  blame  them." 

"  Are  you  related  to  Mr.  Boggs } "  asked  Ruth, 
thinking  it  just  as  well  to  know  the  whole  of  her 
family  history  at  once. 

"I  should  think  I  was.  Cauldwell  Boggs  is  my 
brother;  but  I  may  just  as  well  say  that  we're  not 
over-fond  of  each  other.  He  is  always  scolding  me 
about  my  boys,  thinks  I  don't  know  how  to  manage 
them.  People  can  give  advice  so  cheap,  you  see. 
By  the  by,  Mr.  Barclay,  he  wants  to  know  what  you 
are  going  to  do  with  Ruth." 

Poor  Ruth  had  borne  all  she  could,  but  her  patience 
was  not  equal  to  this :  she  rose  and  began  to  exam- 
ine a  distant  picture,  leaving  the  field  to  Mr.  Barclay, 
who  responded  laughingly,  — 

"  Do  with  her  t  Eat  her  up,  I  suppose,  when  she 
is  plump  enough." 


ASPIRATIONS,  109 

Mrs.  Vedder  looked  puzzled ;  then,  regarding  Ruth 
curiously,  said,  — 

"  She  is  very  genteel,  very." 

"  Now  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  replied  Mr.  Barclay. 

"Why  not.?" 

"  Because  she  is  much  too  nice  for  that." 

"Why,  isn't  it  nice  to  be  genteel?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

Mrs.  Vedder  laughed  good-naturedly.  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand you,  but  seems  to  me  she  is  too  fine  to  make 
her  own  way  in  the  world." 

"There  I  can  agree  with  you." 

"Then  I  suppose  you  intend  to"  — 

Ruth  lost  the  rest  of  the  question,  only  hearing  a 
very  emphatic  — 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  from  Mr.  Barclay,  who  now 
rose  to  go. 

Mrs.  Vedder  began  coughing  violently,  but  squeez- 
ing Ruth's  hand  begged  her  to  come  again. 

"What  a  relief,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  "to  have  that 
over ! " 

Ruth  was  silent.  Unpleasant  as  had  been  the 
interview,  she  wanted  to  hear  more  of  her  mother ; 
and,  though  Mrs.  Vedder  was  not  at  all  to  her  taste, 
she  felt  sorry  for  her.  She  seemed  to  be  a  person  of 
good  heart  and  honest  nature,  whom  circumstances 
had  forced  out  of  the  homely,  simple  sphere  she 
might  have  enjoyed.  To  Mr.  Barclay's  surprise, 
Ruth  announced  her  intention  of  going  again  to 
inquire  about  Mrs.  Vedder  on  the  following  day. 

"  My  dear,  be  careful.  She  will  bore  you  dreadfully 
if  you  give  her  the  chance,"  was  his  injunction. 


no  ASPIRATIONS. 

"  She  is  ill  and  a  stranger,  and  I  ought  to  show  her 
some  attention." 

*'  Don't  promise  to  go  about  with  her.'* 

"  No  danger :  Miss  Marchbank  is  on  guard.  She 
is  to  leave  me  and  call  for  me  to-day." 

So  again  she  went,  carrying  a  bunch  of  violets. 

Mrs.  Vedder  was  much  worse  and  really  in  need 
of  sympathy.  She  was  dull  and  feverish,  and  tears 
came  to  her  eyes  when  Ruth  entered. 

"This  is  very  kind  of  you,  very  kind,  for  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Barclay  does  not  approve  of  me.  Oh,  you 
may  speak  plainly  to  me  !  I  am  used  to  it.  I  see  the 
difference  in  people.  Mr.  Barclay  is  a  proud  man, 
and  you  are  the  apple  of  his  eye.  I  don't  wonder. 
You  are  like  your  mother,  Ruth,  very  like  her.  She 
was  so  sweet.  I  don't  mean  to  flatter  you.  I  am 
not  complimentary.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
like  to  hear  about  your  mother." 

"Of  course,"  said  Ruth,  putting  down  her  flowers, 
and  touching  the  rumpled  pillows  gently,  on  which 
her  aunt  was  leaning;  "but  let  me  make  you  com- 
fortable ;  there,  is  not  that  pleasanter .? " 

"  Yes,  much.  Ah,  how  I  wish  I  had  a  daughter ! 
But  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  the  same  with  her 
as  with  the  boys,  —  she  would  have  been  seeking  her 
own  pleasure." 

"  Where  are  your  sons  ^ " 

"  In  Rome,  I  believe ;  but  I  am  not  sure.  They 
don't  write  punctually,  and  I'm  no  hand  at  letters." 

"But  they  will  come  to  you  soon,  will  they  not  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  never  know.  They  are  making 
collections  to  take  home.     I  wish  I  was  at  home ;  it 


ASPIRATIONS.  Ill 

is  all  I  want.  Cauldwell  told  me  I  was  foolish  to  come 
to  Europe.  He  said  I  wouldn't  enjoy  it.  But  I  never 
like  to  do  as  he  says  :  he  is  so  opinionated,  and  scolds 
so  about  the  boys ;  says  they  are  spoiled,  and  will  run 
through  their  money  and  mine  too.  I'm  sure  they 
are  welcome  to  mine.  What  use  have  I  for  it  after 
my  clothes  are  bought  .'*  Are  you  fond  of  dress, 
jewelry.?  *  A  little.'  Well,  just  open  that  wardrobe. 
The  key  turns  hard.  Keys  and  locks  and  door-han- 
dles are  always  out  of  order  in  Europe.  There,  what 
do  you  think  of  those  things.'*" 

Ruth  was  amazed.  Silks,  satins,  and  filmy  fabrics 
were  laid  over  one  another  in  glistening  profusion. 
Jackets  and  capes  of  costly  lace  had  been  flung  on 
top  of  them  indifferently.  Instinctively,  Ruth,  with 
girlish  deftness,  folded  each  article  as  she  surveyed  it, 
until  they  occupied  a  third  of  the  compass  they  had 
been  in  before. 

"  Ah,  how  nice  that  is  !  Bridget  is  so  unhandy ; 
but  she  is  kind,  and  so  I  put  up  with  her,  and  give 
her  all  my  old  things." 

Ruth,  not  accustomed  to  seeing  servants  arrayed 
in  cast-off  finery,  mildly  suggested  that  plainer  clothes 
would  be  more  becoming. 

"  Do  you  think  so  t  Well,  then,  I  suppose  it  must 
be  correct.  Mr.  Barclay  knows,  of  course  ;  but  it 
pleases  the  girl,  and  makes  her  think  she  is  some- 
body. Now  open  that  box.  Here's  the  key  on  my 
watch-chain." 

Ruth  opened  a  large  leathern-covered  case,  and 
her  eyes  were  dazzled  again.  Rubies,  emeralds, 
amethysts,  turquoises,  in   necklaces,   bracelets,  and 


112  ASPIRATIONS. 

pendants,  shone  upon  her.  A  diamond  cross  and  a 
pearl  locket  were  side  by  side. 

"  Open  the  locket,  Ruth  ;  it  may  interest  you." 

Ruth  obeyed.  In  it  was  an  old-fashioned  daguer- 
reotype of  a  child.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  looking  in  the  glass,  that  the  face  was  her 
own. 

*'  There,  that  is  for  you.  It  is  your  own  mother's 
likeness,"  she  heard  Mrs.  Vedder  saying. 

*•  Is  this  my  mother } "  she  asked,  closing  what 
might  have  been  a  small  shop,  and  locking  in  the 
brilliants  from  their  source  of  life  and  power. 

*'  Yes,  it  is.  We  had  our  pictures  taken  together; 
and  I  cut  out  the  face  of  this  one  day,  and  slipped  it 
in  here." 

"  Cannot  you  take  it  out  for  me }  " 

"  Why  should  I .?     Keep  it  as  it  is." 

**  Oh,  not  in  this  valuable  case  !  " 

"Pshaw!  that  is  nothing  —  a  few  pearls  more  or 
less.  Put  it  in  your  pocket  and  think  no  more  of 
it." 

And  so  Ruth  carried  home  her  mother's  picture, 
which  Mr.  Barclay  acknowledged  to  be  a  very  pretty 
gift. 

Again  and  again  Ruth  went  to  inquire  for  her 
aunt's  health,  and  after  each  report  Mr.  Barclay  made 
less  opposition  to  her  going,  until  it  came  to  be  a 
daily  affair.  Sometimes  it  was  only  a  question  and 
answer,  sometimes  she  sat  for  an  hour.  Miss  March- 
bank  went  too;  and,  though  she  saw  reasons  why  Mr. 
Barclay  could  not  admire  Mrs.  Vedder,  she  upheld 
Ruth  in  the  duty  of  kindness  to  her  lonely  and  evi- 


ASPIRATIONS.  113 

dently  unhappy  relative.  But  to  Mrs.  Vedder,  Ruth 
seemed  a  ministering  angel,  much  more  of  a  heavenly 
visitant  than  the  marble-winged  creatures  in  the 
church. 


1 1 4  ASPIRA  TIONS, 


CHAPTER  X. 

It  was  with  a  curious  mixture  of  regret  and  pleas- 
ure that  Mr.  A.  L.  Marsh  responded  to  Mr.  Barclay's 
invitation  to  visit  him,  and  sauntered  forth  from  his 
lodgings  one  evening  in  May  for  this  purpose.  The  re- 
gret arose  from  his  entire  indifference  to  society,  and 
a  preference  for  his  quiet,  almost  monotonous  seclu- 
sion. Having  no  family  ties,  his  whole  time  was 
given  to  his  profession ;  and  his  Bohemian  manner 
of  life,  though  quite  innocent,  unfitted  him  for  the 
etiquette  and  conventionalities  imposed  by  society. 
The  ball  at  the  Legation  had,  however,  been  an  oppor- 
tunity which  he  could  not  afford  to  let  pass,  for 
his  eyes  had  to  be  fed ;  and  while  there  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  two  American  girls  who  had  most 
interested  him  were  the  friends  of  his  childhood. 
Towards  Mr.  Barclay  he  was  also  most  kindly  at- 
tracted, remembering  the  spur  his  good  friend  had 
given  him,  and  how  sincere  an  interest  he  had  mani- 
fested in  him.  But  how  far  away  those  early  days 
seemed  !  —  days  of  toil,  of  vague  and  restless  aspira- 
tions, —  and  yet  how  clearly  came  back  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  little  brown  house,  the  broad,  shining 
sands,  the  rocks  at  the  Neck,  and  the  old  grand- 
father and   grandmother  whose  life  of   hardship  he 


ASPIRATIONS.  115 

had  shared,  and  for  whom  he  had  the  warmest  affec- 
tion !  Yes,  he  recalled  now  Mr.  Barclay's  generous 
offer  and  his  own  refusal,  — for  the  sake  of  the  poor 
old  grandmother  whose  last  hours  he  had  been  able 
to  cheer.  How  glad  he  was  to  think  that  he  did  not 
leave  her!  and  with  what  natural  pride  he  contem- 
plated those  early  struggles,  the  hard  toil  on  ship- 
board, when,  leaving  home  behind  him  and  the  graves 
of  the  two  old  people,  he  had  started  for  the  goal  of 
his  artistic  hopes,  the  land  of  his  birth  ! 

For  Lillo  knew  that  he  was  Italian  ;  and  besides 
the  charm  which  Italy  had  for  him,  there  was  beneath 
all  other  thoughts  the  hope  of  discovering  something 
about  his  mother. 

As  yet,  he  had  been  unsuccessful.  After  his 
grandmother's  death,  he  had  found  a  few  papers  and 
letters  which  looked  as  if  they  might  afford  some 
clew.  The  letters,  however,  were  in  Italian,  and  he 
had  been  unable  to  read  them.  Among  them  was  a 
silhouette  cut  in  black  paper,  a  profile  of  a  girl  whose 
clustering  locks  fell  over  her  brow  as  his  own  did ; 
and  it  so  pleased  him  that  he  made  from  it  a  sketch 
in  color,  using  his  own  eyes  and  other  portions  of 
his  face  to  supply  the  deficiencies  which  the  silhou- 
ette could  not  give.  But  then,  in  the  pressure  of 
work,  these  things  had  been  forgotten,  and  remained 
packed  away  in  his  trunk. 

It  was  not  unnatural,  that,  in  the  prospect  of  renew- 
ing his  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Barclay,  these  thoughts 
should  arise. 

The  evening  was  enchanting ;  and  his  long  walk 
led   him  over  the  Arno  with  its   boats,  the   amber 


1 1 6  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

water  tinted  with  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
past  the  cafes  where  people  were  smoking  and  play- 
ing dominoes,  and  where  there  was  much  clashing  of 
dishes  and  glasses. 

The  flower  women  and  the  dealers  of  early  fruits 
were  going  home  ;  but  he  was  able  to  secure  a  bunch 
of  sweet  double  violets,  and  then  he  found  himself  at 
Mr.  Barclay's  door. 

The  room  was  full,  —  Miss  Alden  and  her  nieces, 
Ruth  and  Miss  Marchbank,  Mr.  Potter,  the  Duchess 
of  Stickingham  and  the  pale-faced  American  beauty, 
Mrs.  Coit,  with  several  gentlemen  whom  Lillo  recog- 
nized having  seen  at  the  Legation.  It  was  hardly  a 
time  for  reminiscences ;  and  Mr.  Barclay  made  no  al- 
lusion to  them,  but  presented  him  to  Ruth  and  Grace 
and  May  as  an  old  friend. 

"Of  course  we  remember  you  perfectly,  Mr. 
Marsh,  as  the  courageous  boy  who  jumped  overboard 
after  Mr.  Barclay,  that  day  we  all  had  such  a  hard 
time  together  at  the  Neck,"  said  May,  with  one  of 
her  bewitching  smiles.  "  Ruth  was  not  with  us.  —  It 
was  before  we  knew  you,  Ruth." 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth,  smiling,  "but  I  have  heard  the 
story  related  so  often,  that  it  seems  as  if  I  must  have 
been  one  of  the  party." 

"Perhaps  you  did  not  hear  what  courage  one  of 
the  little  girls  of  that  time  showed,  and  what  a  good 
oar  she  pulled,"  said  Mr.  Marsh,  glancing  at  May, 
and  noticing  the  merry  flash  of  her  gray-blue  eyes. 
"  Only  half  of  the  story  was  told,  I  fear." 

"Ah,  my  lesser  achievement  was  forgotten  in  the 
greater  one  of  yours  !  "  answered  May.     "  Besides,  I 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 1 7 

doubt  if  the  misdemeanor  of  our  escapade  did  not 
balance  any  merit  of  mine.  I  know  I  received  a 
famous  scolding,  and  aunt  has  never  fully  trusted  me 
since." 

"That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,"  said  Ruth  de- 
murely. "You  have  the  faculty  for  getting  into 
scrapes  of  all  sorts.  —  But  we  must  have  a  little  dance 
now.     You  dance,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Marsh  .'' " 

"  No,  not  at  all." 

"Neither  do  I.  Then  you  shall  come  and  turn 
my  music  for  me,  as  I  must  play." 

The  dancing,  however,  did  not  last  long  :  the  even- 
ing was  sultry,  and  the  elders  were  discussing  the 
school  question.  The  duchess  left  early,  and  Mrs. 
Coit  was  planning  a  garden-party  with  Mr.  Potter, 
who  had  promised  to  aid  her.  The  gardens  belonged  to 
an  old  and  wealthy  Italian  family  whose  estates  were 
in  litigation,  but  who  allowed  the  keeper  of  their  do- 
main to  rent  the  gardens  for  his  own  benefit.  Mrs. 
Coit  wished  to  aid  the  Protestant  schools,  and  chose 
this  way  to  do  it.  The  party  was  to  be  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  and,  besides  music  and  dancing,  there  must  be  a 
little  bazar,  —  just  one  table  of  pretty  trifles  for  the 
girls  to  sell,  and  where  they  could  also  dispense 
claret  punch  and  flowers. 

"But,"  interposed  Miss  Alden,  "how  are  we  to 
have  time  for  all  this  .^  None  of  us,  I  presume,  intend 
to  stay  much  longer  in  Florence.  I  am  to  leave  on 
the  30th.     How  long  do  you  remain,  Mr.  Barclay  ?  " 

Mr.  Barclay  glanced  at  Ruth,  but  she  was  listen- 
ing to  May's  lively  chatter  over  some  engravings 
Mr.  Marsh  was  inspecting. 


1 1 8  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

Here  Miss  Marchbank  interposed. 

*'  I  am  trying  to  induce  Mr.  Barclay  to  visit  Spain, 
since  he  has  abandoned  Switzerland." 

"  Spain  in  summer  } "  said  Miss  Alden. 

"  Why  not  .-*  It  will  be  no  warmer  than  would  be  a 
return  to  the  States;  and  Spain  is  so  comparatively 
fresh  to  the  traveller,  it  would  be  a  great  advantage 
to  Miss  Morris." 

"Very  fatiguing,  very.  Are  you  then  really  think- 
ing of  home  again,  Frank }  " 

"  Only  thinking.  Miss  Alden ;  I  assure  you  I  have 
no  definite  plans." 

*'  But  it  is  time  you  did  have,  Frank ;  you  will  lose 
all  your  nationality  if  you  stay  abroad  so  constantly. 
Besides,  Ruth  is  to  be  considered.  Do  you  think  it 
altogether  beneficial  for  a  girl  to  have  no  settled 
home  } "  . 

"How  do  you  find  it  affects  your  own  nieces.  Miss 
Alden  } "  asked  Miss  Marchbank. 

Now  Miss  Alden  was  quite  willing  to  accept  Miss 
Marchbank  as  a  part  of  Mr.  Barclay's  establishment, 
but  not  quite  so  ready  to  accept  her  as  a  personal 
friend ;  for  she  had  noticed  what  had  appeared  to  be 
a  certain  aggressiveness  in  Miss  Marchbank,  which 
was  distasteful  to  her. 

"  My  nieces  have  the  advantage  of  my  personal 
care  and  affection.  Miss  Marchbank,"  she  said  with 
hauteur ;  not  caring  to  explain,  what  was  the  truth, 
that  she  had  come  abroad  with  Grace  in  hopes  of 
breaking  up  an  undesirable  attachment.  "Ruth,  of 
course,  is  fortunate  in  having  a  man  of  leisure  for  her 
guardian,  but  that  hardly  suffices  for  a  home,  in  my 


ASPIRATIONS.  119 

opinion ;  and  Mr.  Barclay  has  always  been  wise 
enough  to  value  that." 

Miss  Marchbank  had  not  lived  in  the  world  fifty 
years  for  nothing.  She  was  used  to  snubs,  and  bore 
them  philosophically;  besides,  Miss  Alden  snubbed 
only  in  a  lady-like  fashion. 

"But,  Miss  Alden,  you  forget  that  Miss  Morris  is 
still  continuins:  her  studies"  — 

"And  if  we  go  home  we  shall  lose  Miss  March- 
bank's  inestimable  services,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  feel- 
ing it  time  to  interpose. 

"Well,  of  course  you  know  best,  Frank,  as  to  the 
necessity  of  further  study.  I  should  think  Ruth 
must  be  by  this  time  quite  an  accomplished  woman." 

"  So  she  is,  in  her  quiet  way." 

As  Miss  Marchbank  now  glided  off  to  see  that 
Mrs.  Coit's  black  lace  and  glittering  diamonds  were 
properly  cloaked  for  departure,  Miss  Alden  leaned 
confidentially  towards  Mr.  Barclay,  and  said,  — 

"It  is  rumored  that  you  intend  to  marry  Ruth, 
Frank.     May  I  ask  if  it  is  true  }  " 

"What  intolerable  nonsense!  It  is  indeed  time 
for  me  to  go  home  if  I  am  thus  to  be  the  subject  of 
gossip.  No,  Miss  Alden,  I  have  no  thought  of  such 
a  thing,  and  pray  don't  let  it  get  to  Ruth's  ears.'* 

"  I  am  afraid  it  has  done  so  already." 

"Then  she  shows  her  good  sense  in  not  being 
affected  by  it." 

"Ah,  these  girls  are  a  great  responsibility.  There's 
Grace,  whom  I  thought  always  a  most  sensible  child, 
has  taken  it  into  her  head  to  become  attached  to  a 
poor  young  man  in  no  way  her  equal.     To  be  sure, 


1 20  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

she  admits  the  folly  of  it,  and  yields  to  my  wish  that 
for  a  year  at  least  there  shall  be  no  intercourse ;  but 
her  temper  is  quite  spoiled  by  it,  and  she  will  not  be 
even  civil  to  any  other  man." 

Mr.  Barclay  smiled.  He  knew  Miss  Alden's  pref- 
erence for  birth  and  fortune. 

"  Who  is  her  friend  } " 

"  Oh,  a  Mr.  Bainbridge !  —  a  nobody,  a  clerk  in 
some  office." 

"  What  are  his  attractions  "i " 

"You  must  ask  Grace.     I  see  none." 

"And  May  —  are  her  affections  disengaged.^"  said 
Mr.  Barclay  lightly,  glancing  over  at  the  three  girls, 
who,  with  Lillo  in  the  centre,  were  listening  to  some- 
thing he  was  relating  with  vivacity. 

"  As  far  as  I  know,  they  are ;  May  is  too  fond  of 
variety  and  excitement  to  bear  the  restrictions  of  an 
^affaire  dii  c(zur'     She  laughs  at  sentiment." 

"Take  care:  she  may  be  the  more  in  danger,"  said 
Mr.  Barclay  prophetically. 

"No,  I  have  no  fears  for  May;  but  Grace  is  a 
serious  trouble." 

But  now  they  were  drawn  into  general  conversa- 
tion. It  was  decided  there  would  not  be  much  time 
for  elaborate  preparations.  Mr.  Potter  promised  to 
levy  on  the  colony  of  American  artists  for  contribu- 
tions, and  Mrs.  Coit  was  to  defray  every  expense  of 
hiring  attendants.  The  fete  would  have  to  be  on 
the  25th,  just  two  weeks  off;  for  after  that  all  the 
Americans  would  be  on  the  wing. 

After  all  the  other  guests  had  gone,  Mr.  Barclay 
drew  from  Lillo  an  account  of   all  the  intervening 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 2 1 

years  since  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance.  It 
was  a  modestly  told  tale  of  earnest  labor,  to  which 
Ruth  listened  with  deep  interest.  She  knew  that 
her  guardian  had  wanted  to  adopt  Lillo  as  a  lad,  and 
she  could  not  help  comparing  their  two  lives,  her  own 
and  his.  While  she  had  been  given  every  advantage, 
every  means  of  culture,  all  that  wealth  and  influence 
could  command,  he  had  striven  alone  single-handed 
against  the  world.  From  the  time  he  had  turned  the 
key  in  the  door  of  the  little  brown  house  on  the  sands 
of  Codtown,  and  had  gone  with  his  bundle  on  his 
back  to  the  fishing-smack  which  was  to  meet  an  out- 
ward-bound vessel,  he  had  worked  unaided.  Land- 
ing at  Havre,  he  had  obtained  employment  on  the 
wharves  until  money  enough  was  earned  for  the  rail- 
way journey  to  Paris.  In  the  same  way  at  Paris  he 
had  lived  on  scant  earnings  by  day,  that  he  might 
study  in  the  schools  at  night.  From  Paris  he  had 
gone  to  Vienna,  to  Dresden,  to  Munich,  and  at  last 
to  his  beloved  Italy. 

"And  what  have  you  to  show  us  for  all  this 
labor }  "  asked  Mr.  Barclay. 

"Nothing  much,"  responded  Lillo.  "You  must 
remember  I  am  yet  a  student.  My  work  has  been 
desultory  in  its  choice  of  subjects  until  now.  I  have 
now  something  on  my  easel  which  I  think  will  deter- 
mine me  in  future." 

"  What  is  it  t "  asked  Mr.  Barclay  eagerly.  "  You 
will  let  us  see  it }  " 

"No,  pardon  me,  not  yet.  It  is  not  far  enough 
completed  to  be  exhibited ;  and,  when  it  is  finished, 
America  must  have  my  first  offering." 


122  ASPIRATIONS. 

"But  our  interest  is  so  great,  we  should  be  privi- 
leged observers,"  urged  Ruth. 

''And  to  Mr.  Barclay's  kindness  I  owe  so  much,  as 
my  first  patron." 

"  Yes,  if  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way ;  though  I 
much  dislike  the  word  'patron  '  so  applied." 

"Thank  you.  It  is  a  mere  phrase  :  no  man  is  more 
independent  of  patronage  than  the  true  artist." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  You  will  let  us,  then,  see 
your  work } " 

"Yes,  when  it  is  a  little  more  advanced." 

"  And  you  will  give  us  some  trifle  for  our  fete y  — 
the  merest  sketch  }  " 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure." 

"That  is  one  of  the  abominations  artists  have  to 
submit  to,  even  if  it  takes  the  very  bread  out  of  their 
mouths,"  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  But  it  may  put  some  in  Mr.  Marsh's  this  time," 
said  Ruth  archly,  "for  you  know  he  will  have  us 
to  sound  his  praises.  There  will  be  lots  of  rich 
people  come  to  the  fetey  all  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can nobility,  —  I  mean  American  'distinction,'  "  she 
said,  correcting  herself,  —  "and  we  will  point  to  his 
sketch,  and  say  how  kind  it  was  in  our  distinguished 
young  compatriot  to  give  it  to  us  when  he  is  so  very, 
very  hard  at  work ;  and  then  they'll  begin  to  think 
they  ought  to  know  something  more  about  this  clever 
Mr.  Marsh,  who  paints  so  charmingly,  and  they  will 
hunt  him  up  and  buy  him  out.  Ah  !  you  must  have 
plenty  of  things  ready  to  sell,  for  you  will  become 
the  fashion  at  once." 

Lillo  smiled  at  Ruth's  ardor.     It  was  very  sweet 


ASPIRATIONS.  123 

to  hear  her,  though  his  whole  soul  scorned  such  diplo- 
macy. 

But  Mr.  Barclay  opened  his  eyes  in  amazement. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  "  do  I  hear  aright  ?  have  you  be- 
come such  an  intriguer  ? " 

"  Oh,  all  girls  have  more  or  less  artfulness ! " 
she  replied,  "  and  this  is  certainly  nothing  very  deep 
or  dreadful." 

Mr.  Barclay  still  shook  his  head.  "You  are  ad- 
vancing in  worldly  wisdom  rapidly.  We  will  have  to 
seek  the  retirement  of  a  New-England  village." 

"  And  be  twice  as  treacherous  and  gossipy." 

"Nous  verrons  que  nous  verrons." 

But  Mr.  Barclay  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  go- 
ing home.  Europe  suited  him,  and  in  Europe  he 
intended  to  stay,  at  least  for  the  present. 


1 24  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 


CHAPTER  XL 

If  Miss  Alden  had  been  of  a  less  courageous 
nature,  she  certainly  would  never  have  attempted  to 
thwart  destiny,  in  the  shape  of  Cupid  and  his  darts, 
by  going  abroad  ;  for,  so  far  from  its  proving  curative, 
it  had  been  distinctly  an  impetus  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion. But  that  she  could  hardly  have  known  before- 
hand, so  perhaps  her  courage  on  the  whole  was 
experimental.  Letters  came  and  went  with  regular- 
ity:  the  promise  of  no  personal  intercourse  only  had 
been  acceded  to  ;  and,  as  this  would  have  been  rather 
difficult  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  much  of  a 
compromise.  She  reasoned,  she  sighed,  she  scolded ; 
but  the  reasoning  was  scorned,  the  sighing  slighted, 
and  the  scolding  taken  as  a  dose,  with  a  wry  face. 

Grace  acknowledged  that  Mr.  Bainbridge's  pros- 
pects were  not  brilliant,  nor  her  choice  a  wise  one  in 
a  worldly  way ;  but  she  never  wavered  in  her  alle- 
giance to  her  lover.  She  argued  that  her  father  had 
not  been  a  rich  man  when  he  married  her  mother, 
that  everybody  could  not  begin  life  with  equal  prom- 
ise of  success,  and  that  she  would  live  and  die  an  old 
maid  unless  allowed  to  do  as  she  pleased. 

"And  this  you  might  much  better  do  than  accept 
the  cramped,  sordid,  miserable  life  which   poverty 


AS  PI R A  TIONS.  1 2  5 

entails,"  replied  her  aunt,  smoothing  down  the  folds 
of  her  heavy  silk,  and  adjusting  the  rich  and  delicate 
lace  at  her  throat. 

Very  naturally  she  considered  her  own  condition 
an  enviable  one.  No  sentimental  nonsense  had  ever 
disturbed  her  serenity.  But  Grace  thought  it  the 
very  refinement  of  cruelty  when  her  aunt  would  close 
these  unsatisfactory  discussions  by  saying,  — 

"  It  is  absolute  selfishness  in  a  woman  to  consent 
to  a  marriage  with  a  man  of  small  means.  He  has  no 
chance  to  rise,  he  is  tied,  fettered ;  family  cares  soon 
rob  him  of  all  ambition,  and  he  becomes  a  household 
drudge." 

Then,  as  Grace  looked  her  despair.  May  would 
scream  with  laughter :  "  Aunt  Althea,  how  ridicu- 
lous you  make  things  appear !  Why,  Grace  has  no 
attachment  for  a  waiter-man  or  a  bootblack !  " 

But  May  herself  was  also  a  source  of  great  uneasi- 
ness to  her  worldly  aunt,  whose  choice  of  friends 
was  very  exacting.  Never  had  Miss  Alden  allowed 
herself  to  be  drawn  into  any  connection  with  people 
whose  ancestry,  habits,  personal  appearance,  or  man- 
ners were  in  the  least  questionable.  She  had  a  high 
standard,  and  she  adhered  to  it.  She  was  not  of  an 
unkind  disposition :  she  could  tolerate  chance  ac- 
quaintances, who  were  perhaps  not  up  to  the  mark, 
in  a  graceful  way ;  but  she  stood  guard  over  the 
portals  of  her  friendships. 

Now  May,  well  brought  up,  tenderly  nurtured  in 
an  atmosphere  of  refinement,  had  a  most  remarkable 
taste  for  people  whom  her  aunt  considered  deplorably 
vulgar,  —  "  loud  "  would  have  been  the  word  which 


1 26  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

would  have  expressed  her  meaning,  had  she  ever 
used  slang,  —  people  who  wore  diamonds  on  all 
occasions,  and  who  were  very  prominent  at  hotel- 
tables  ;  who  gave  champagne  suppers,  and  drove  fast 
horses ;  who  were  anxious  for  the  acquaintance  of 
titled  foreigners ;  and  who  by  their  acts  and  attitudes 
demanded  the  attention  which  nothing  in  themselves 
deserved. 

Miss  Althea  Alden's  appreciation  of  money  never 
led  her  into  the  mistakes  of  these  people,  and  she 
could  not  at  all  comprehend  May's  tolerance  of  them 
for  an  hour. 

But  May,  full  of  life,  spirit,  vivacity,  charmingly 
pretty,  dazzled  by  glare  and  glitter,  fond  of  fun  as  a 
child,  had  been  drawn  into  dangerous  intimacy  with 
some  of  this  sort. 

A  Mrs.  Godfrey  Gray  had  made  ardent  love  to 
May,  petted,  admired  her,  invited  her  to  visit  her, 
and  asked  her  to  go  about  with  her.  But  Miss  Alden 
had  steadily  refused. 

In  Mrs.  Gray's  train  were  two  or  three  young  men, 
idle,  rich,  and  with  no  apparent  object  in  life  but 
amusement. 

May's  innate  good  taste  would  soon  have  tired  of 
them,  —  as  it  was,  she  ridiculed  them  constantly, — 
but  her  aunt's  horror  of  them  aroused  a  spirit  of 
opposition,  a  childish  love  of  teasing  and  mischief, 
which  induced  her  to  encourage  rather  than  discour- 
age their  attentions.  And  Miss  Alden  received  no 
sympathy  from  Grace  when  May  disobeyed  orders 
and  went  to  drive  with  Mrs.  Gray. 

*'I  wonder  that  you  are  so  shocked,  aunt.     Mrs. 


ASPIRATIONS,  127 

Godfrey  Gray  is  a  very  rich  woman.  I  have  heard 
her  say  just  how  many  servants  she  kept,  what  high 
wages  she  paid,  and  how  entirely  her  household  is 
ruled  by  them.  She  never  goes  in  her  kitchen,  rarely 
in  her  nursery  ;  and  her  expenses  are  enormous.  She 
is  so  well  versed  in  the  price  of  diamonds  and  India 
shawls,  that  she  can  make  a  close  guess  as  to  just 
what  was  paid  for  them  by  the  person  who  may  be 
visiting  her;  and  she  always  travels  en pri7ice'' 

Miss  Alden  listened  patiently,  and  returned 
quietly,  — 

"  You  are  young,  Grace,  to  attempt  satire.  I  am 
no  devotee  of  wealth.  I  am  simply  prudent.  When 
you  have  lived  as  long  as  I,  your  judgment  will,  I 
trust,-  be  riper.  I  do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Gray  ;  she 
is  one  of  those  who  misrepresent  us  abroad,  and  one 
whom  people  of  refinement  at  home  shun." 

"Not  exclusively.  I  have  noticed  that  she  men- 
tions many  people  whom  you  visit." 

"New  York  is  cosmopolitan,  I  allow." 

Grace  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  on  with 
her  letter.  Little  did  she  care  for  her  aunt's  burden 
of  responsibility.  She  was  selfishly  absorbed  in  her 
own  affairs,  and  she  was  honestly  in  love.  Mr.  Bain- 
bridge  would  have  been  astonished  to  know  upon 
how  high  a  pinnacle  she  had  placed  him  ;  for  he  was 
a  modest,  unassuming,  and  apparently  unaspiring 
man,  and  bore  his  share  of  their  difficulties  in  a 
much  gentler  spirit.  Perhaps  the  necessary  but  un- 
romantic  calculations  suggested  by  the  thought  of 
marriage  tempered  his  views. 

It  was  a  charming  day,  and  May  danced  into  the 


128  ASPIRATIONS. 

room  where  her  aunt  and  Grace  were  sitting,  with  a 
gay  and  naughty  carelessness  which  nearly  disarmed 
Miss  Alden ;  but  she  rose  at  once  and  left  in 
silence. 

May  made  a  little  grimace,  saying,  — 

"  Aunt  can  be  very  dignified :  I  would  much  rather 
she  scolded." 

"  You  deserve  her  displeasure.  It  was  outrageous 
in  you,  May,  to  go  so  directly  in  opposition  to  her 
wdshes." 

"I  could  not  get  out  of  it,  Grace.  I  positively 
was  cornered.  I  could  not  say,  'Mrs.  Gray,  my  aunt 
won't  let  me  drive  with  you,'  as  if  I  were  a  child  six 
years  old.  Besides,  she  is  awfully  jolly,  and  the 
drive  was  delicious.  We  went  to  the  Pitti  Palace 
first,  and  afterwards  in  the  direction  of  those  gardens 
where  Mrs.  Coit  is  to  have  h^x  fete.  They  surround 
an  old  gloomy  prison  of  a  palace,  which  is  only  partly 
occupied." 

"And  who  went  with  you.-^" 

"Arthur  Smith  and  Mr.  Morton." 

"  How  can  you  tolerate  them  }  " 

"  Oh,  they  are  innocent  sort  of  nobodies  ! " 

"Innocent.?" 

"  Yes ;  they  have  not  force  enough  to  be  bad." 

"Does  it  demand  force  .'^     I  hardly  think  so." 

"  You're  in  a  preachy  mood,  Grace.  You  always 
are  when  you  are  writing  to  brother  Bainbridge.  I 
don't  know  any  bad  men,  and  so  am  not  competent 
to  judge  just  what  badness  does  demand.  But  I 
always  have  supposed  a  villain  had  to  have  some 
native  genius.     Now,  these  fellows  are  just  without 


ASPIRATIONS.  129 

one  spark  of  that  sort  of  thing.  Why,  they  laugh 
at  what  I  say  as  if  I  were  a  professional  wit ! " 

"You  are  far  from  stupid." 

"Ah,  that  is  a  nice  little  concession!  Come,  I'll 
reward  your  sisterly  kindness  now  with  a  confidential 
disclosure.  Mrs.  Coit's  fitCy  you  know,  is  to  be  on 
the  25th.  Well,  it  will  all  be  over  by  evening,  and 
that  night  there  is  to  be  a  bal  masqu^ 2X  the  'Carlo 
Alberto.'  Of  course,  aunt  would  never  consent  to 
our  going.  Nothing  would  move  her,  and  I  don't 
mean  to  trouble  her  by  asking ;  but  I'm  going  all 
the  same,  without  asking.  Oh,  you  may  look  as 
horrified  as  you  please !  All  your  thoughts  and  hopes 
and  fancies  revolve  around  brother  Bainbridge.  But 
I  am  free  as  air,  as  sunshine,  —  and  I  have  always 
wanted  above  all  things  to  see  a  bal  masqu^.  It 
must  be  so  droll,  so  delightful.  Mrs.  Gray  is  going 
to  the  fete^  and  will  bring  us  home  ;  but  she  will 
arrange  to  have  a  little  accident,  a  detention  at  a 
wayside  inn,  where  we  can  change  our  dresses  and 
assume  our  masks ;  and  then  we  will  go  on  and  have 
our  fun,  and  nobody  need  be  distressed  about  us." 

Grace  looked  at  May  in  silent  astonishment. 

"  Why  do  you  glare  at  me  that  way,  Grace  ? " 
cried  May. 

"Because  I  cannot  believe  my  own  ears." 

"  Why  not  .-*  What  harm  is  there  in  having  a  little 
fun  for  one  night } " 

"You  know  exactly  as  well  as  I  do." 

"No  ;  I  protest  I  do  not.  All  you  do  is  to  sigh 
and  look  sour,  and  care  for  nothing  but  the  post ; 
while  I  am  glad  to  have  some  diversion.     Aunt  is  so 


I30  ASPIRATIONS. 

rigid  and  tiresome,  that  I  might  as  well  be  in  Kam- 
tchatka." 

*'  But  this  bal  inasqti^,  —  how  do  you  know  what 
sort  of  an  affair  it  will  be  ?  what  people  you  will 
meet  ? " 

"  What  do  I  care  ?  No  one  will  know  me.  It 
requires,  of  course,  a  little  daring,  but  it  will  be  great 
fun." 

"  And  aunt,  —  how  do  you  reconcile  your  con- 
science to  deceiving  her  }  " 

'*  Please  don't  put  the  thing  in  such  a  serious  way. 
There's  no  conscience  in  the  matter.  I  want  to  see 
something  of  the  world.  Aunt  would  have  me  wear 
smoked-glass  spectacles  all  my  life,  and  I  prefer  to 
use  my  unassisted  eyes.  I  am  not  going  to  deceive 
her." 

"You  will  if  you  do  not  tell  her." 

"No,  I  won't.  I  will  manage  somehow.  I  am  a 
person  of  resources." 

"  And  much  self-deception,  I  fear,"  thought  Grace, 
quite  alarmed,  but  hoping  the  freak  would  not  be 
carried  out.  She  knew  that  remonstrance  would 
arouse  antagonism,  and  her  letter  was  not  yet  fin- 
ished :  so  she  bent  herself  to  its  completion,  while 
May  tossed  over  the  contents  of  the  trunks,  and 
carolled  a  little  song,  putting  off  for  a  more  conven- 
ient moment  the  duty  of  asking  her  aunt's  forgive- 
ness, which  she  really  coveted,  now  that  the  excite- 
ment of  her  day's  pleasure  had  passed.  As  she  did 
so,  Ruth  Morris  was  announced,  and  followed  the 
servant  into  the  room,  with  the  freedom  always  ac- 
corded her. 


ASPIRATIONS.  131 

May  rose  from  the  trunks,  and  Grace  from  her 
writing. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  said  May  in  her  impul- 
sive way,  kissing  Ruth,  and  leading  her  to  a  comfort- 
able chair.  "  I  am  in  disgrace,  and  doing  all  sorts 
of  wicked  things,  and  need  sympathy." 

"  You  look  very  distressed,  to  be  sure,"  answered 
Ruth,  surveying  the  graceful,  pretty  girl  with  admi- 
ration ;  "  but  I  too  come  claiming  sympathy." 

**  How  is  it  possible,  you  who  have  every  wish  of 
your  heart  gratified  } " 

*'  Envy  me  not,  Grace,"  answered  Ruth,  with  as- 
sumed solemnity.  '*  No  one  escapes  trouble  in  this 
weary  world.  I  have  just  come  from  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Vedder." 

May  and  Grace  both  knew  who  Mrs.  Vedder  was. 

"  Then  no  wonder  you  want  pity,"  said  May,  with 
one  of  her  mischievous  grimaces. 

"  No,  dear,  it  is  she  who  needs  it.  I  only  asked  for 
sympathy.     I  have  determined  to  go  home  with  her." 

"You  ! "  screamed  the  girls. 

"  Yes,  I." 

"  But  will  Mr.  Barclay  allow  it  ? " 

"  He  has  given  his  permission." 

"  Why,  Ruth,  how  could  you  ask  it  ? " 

"  I  did  so,  because  Mrs.  Vedder  is  ill,  and  in  need 
of  kindness,  and  because  —  Well,  no  matter  for  any 
other  reason." 

Grace  was  stung  to  the  quick. 

"  I  thought  you  were  above  being  influenced  in 
that  way,"  she  said ;  adding,  however,  "  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself  for  my  foolish  speech  to  you." 


1 3  2  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"It  did  hurt,  I  acknowledge,  Grace." 

"  But  surely  you  will  not  leave  Mr.  Barclay  on  that 
account  ? " 

"  No.  I  have  no  idea  of  leaving  him  permanently. 
I  love  him  too  well  to  do  that.  But  Mrs.  Vedder 
really  needs  me,  and  I  can  be  of  great  service  to  her, 
while  Mr.  Barclay  can  spare  me  for  a  while  ;  and  then, 
perhaps,  the  silly  talk  will  have  died  away." 

"  And  Miss  Marchbank,  what  will  become  of  her  t " 

"  Oh,  she  is  already  in  correspondence  with  a  family 
who  have  been  trying  to  get  her  for  a  year  past !  " 

"  But,  Ruth,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  ? 
what  sort  of  people  you  are  going  among } " 

"  I  have  an  imperfect  idea,"  said  Ruth,  with  a  dep- 
recating look. 

"  And  you  will  leave  this  lovely,  lovely  Florence, 
a  summer  in  Switzerland,  another  winter  perhaps  at 
Nice,  to  go  —  where  —  to  what  part  of  our  beloved 
land }  " 

"  To  New  York,  first ;  afterwards  to  some  quiet, 
little  spot  in  the  country,  I  hope." 

"  Tieiis  !  cest  malJietireiisey'  said  May  ;  whereupon 
Grace  turned  scornfully  about  with,  — 

"  Pray  give  us  none  of  Mrs.  Gray's  execrable  French 
phrases.  May.  She  is  not  content  with  contaminating 
your  manners  only,  but  "  —     She  stopped  abruptly. 

May  made  another  grimace  in  reply,  and  answered 
with  less  severity,  but  equal  maliciousness,  — 

"  Positively,  you  envy  Ruth's  return  to  her  native 
land." 

"And  if  I  do,  what  then.?" 

"  Why,  go  with  her  !     I  would  if  I  were  you." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 3  3 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  said  Grace  regretfully. 

"  Really,  you  are  the  most  absurdly  love-lorn  crea- 
ture the  world  ever  saw.  —  But,  Ruth,  what  romantic 
idea  possesses  you  to  leave  dear,  kind  Mr.  Barclay 
for  that  stupid  creature,  Mrs.  Vedder } " 

"She  is  my  aunt.  May." 

"I  beg  pardon,  so  she  is;  but  that  gives  her  no 
claim,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure ;  she  loved  my  mother." 

"  But  nobody  cares  very  much  for  relations  now-a- 
days ;  besides,  yours  have  virtually  given  you  up." 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  am  a  "  — 

May  sprang  up,  and  stopped  whatever  detracting 
word  was  coming  with  a  kiss. 

"  You  are  a  darling,  an  angel,  a  treasure  !  I  love 
you,  Ruth,  and  so  cannot  allow  you  to  say  a  dispar- 
aging word  of  yourself.  This  kindness  to  Mrs. 
Vedder  indicates  what  you  can  do  in  the  way  of 
self-denial.  You  make  me  good  in  spite  of  myself, 
and  so  now  I  am  going  to  find  aunt  and  make  my 
peace  with  her  ;  I  have  offended  her  awfully.  Adieu." 
May  fluttered  away  like  the  butterfly  she  was,  trail- 
ing her  pretty  silk  after  her. 

Grace  sighed. 

"  I  wish  I  could  influence  her  as  you  do,  Ruth." 

Ruth  smiled,  for  she  knew  how  self-absorbed  Grace 
had  become ;  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"  May  is  dazzled  by  that  dreadful  Mrs.  Godfrey 
Gray,  of  whom  I  could  believe  any  thing.  I  dare 
say  she  is  a  divorch\  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"Why,  Grace!  don't  be  uncharitable,"  remon- 
strated Ruth. 


134  ASPIRATIONS. 

"I  cannot  help  it;  she  is  an  injury  to  May,  and^ — 
will  you  believe  it?  —  intends  taking  her  to  a  horrid 
masked  ball." 

"Your  aunt  will  never  allow  it." 

"  She  is  not  to  know  it." 

"  Oh,  Grace,  she  must !  " 

"  No  ;  May  told  me  in  confidence,  and  declares  she 
will  go." 

"  But  you  must  tell  her  that  it  is  not  at  all  a  place 
where  girls  are  ever  allowed." 

"  Pshaw  !  she  laughs  at  every  thing  I  tell  her.  She 
says  Americans  are  a  law  to  themselves,  and  can  go 
where  they  please." 

"She  forgets  that  modesty  and  reserve  are  just  as 
essential  in  one  place  as  in  another.  She  would  not 
do  such  a  thing  in  New  York  or  Boston." 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  We  must  prevent  her  going,  Grace,"  said  Ruth 
earnestly. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  we  may." 

"  Shall  I  consult  Mr.  Barclay  } " 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well." 

Then  they  talked  of  the  garden-party,  and  the 
various  contributions  for  it  that  had  been  received. 

"The  artists  have  sent  some  charming  sketches, 
and  the  duchess  has  bought  some  mosaics,"  said 
Ruth. 

"  The  duchess  !  How  grand  you  have  become  to 
have  her  for  a  friend,  Ruth  !  "  exclaimed  Grace. 

"  Really,  I  don't  appreciate  the  elevation.  She  is  a 
very  earnest  supporter  of  the  schools,  and  a  thorough- 
ly good  woman ;  but  she  is  much  more  Mr.  Barclay's 


ASPIRATIONS.  135 

friend  than  mine.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  find  her  hard 
to  talk  to." 

"And  Lillo,  —  Mr.  Marsh,  I  mean,  —  has  he  given 
any  thing  for  the  bazar  ?  " 

"  Yes.  We  were  at  his  rooms  yesterday  ;  he  works 
with  many  others  in  a  large  studio.  I  took  my  choice 
from  a  portfolio  of  studies,  —  a  lovely  little  head, 
a  child's,  not  unlike  one  of  the  Angelicos  in  the 
Uffizi  Gallery.  He  was  at  first  disinclined  to  offer  it, 
as  he  said  it  had  peculiar  associations,  —  what,  I  could 
not  of  course  guess, — but  he  relented  at  last  and  gave 
me  the  sketch.  I  knew  it  would  please  Mr.  Barclay. 
He  has  already  bought  it." 

"What  is  Mr.  Barclay  going  to  do  with  all  the 
beautiful  things  he  has  gathered  about  him  t " 

Ruth's  face  saddened  in  expression  as  she  an- 
swered, — 

"  I  do  not  know :  he  seems  too  restless  to  ever 
settle  in  one  place,  and  yet  he  may  one  day  tire  of 
travel." 

"And  you,  Ruth.?" 

"  I  have  no  choice,  except  that  for  a  few  months  I 
shall  visit  Mrs.  Vedder." 


136  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"Ah!  signore,  why  will  you  let  people  come  to 
these  poor  shabby  rooms  ? "  was  the  exclamation  of 
Lillo's  landlady  the  day  after  Mr.  Barclay  and  Ruth's 
visit. 

"  And  why  not,  Bianca  }  " 

"Because,  indeed,  they  are  so  bare,  so  unfit  an 
appartamento  for  ladies  to  enter." 

"Indeed  !  then  why  do  you  not  lessen  my  rent  ?" 
exclaimed  the  practical  artist.  But,  seeing  Bianca's 
crestfallen  look,  he  glanced  out  of  the  window,  and 
with  a  stretch  of  his  hand  toward  the  .hills  said,  — 

"This  view  atones  for  all  shortcomings  within. 
What  care  I  for  the  broken-down  sedias,  or  the 
cracked   tazzasf 

"  But  the  signorina,  was  she  not  shocked }  The 
Americans  are  so  grand,  and  to  mount  way  up  to 
this/2^;/^  must  have  tired  her." 

"Not  at  all;  she  enjoyed  it.  American  girls  like 
variety,  adventure,"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to 
his  listener. 

"The  signorina  is  bellissima !^^  sighed  Bianca, 
glancing  at  her  withered  old  face  in  the  small  mirror, 
giving  a  touch  of  her  duster  to  the  table,  and  gather- 
ing up  the  various  household  utensils  which  she  had 


ASPIRATIONS.  137 

been  using,  for  a  spasmodic  fit  of  industry  had  seized 
her.  Days  and  days  went  by  with  little  or  no  atten- 
tion to  the  quiet  inhabitant  of  these  upper  rooms; 
but  now  that  an  American  gentleman  and  a  beauti- 
ful young  lady  had  condescended  to  explore  his  fast- 
ness, she  must  be  more  alert.  Who  could  tell  what 
might  happen  should  they  be  as  foolish  and  romantic 
as  the  young  signore,  and  prefer  an  outside  "view  "  to 
interior  elegance?  There  was  no  telling  what  those 
barbaric  Americans  ever  would  do  ;  and  Bianca  began 
calculating  how  much  more  she  would  increase  the 
rent. 

But  Lillo  had  already  forgotten  Bianca  and  her 
apologies.  He  was  thinking  of  the  delicate  beauty 
of  one  American  girl,  of  her  gentle  manners  and 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  his  work.  He  was  wish- 
ing he  had  such  a  friend,  one  that  would  take  pride 
and  pleasure  in  his  achievements,  one  to  whom  he 
could  confide  his  aspirations,  one  who  could  cheer 
and  stimulate  him,  and  for  whom  he  would  be  so 
glad  to  strive  and  conquer  fortune.  Not  often  did 
he  allow  himself  these  thoughts.  He  was  too  strong, 
too  determined,  to  yield  easily  to  vague  desires  of 
this  kind.  But  the  strongest  have  need  of  affection, 
and  Lillo  often  longed  to  know  something  of  his 
mother. 

Had  she  been  young  and  pretty,  or  staid  and 
saintly  }  Was  she  living  or  dead,  and  who  was  she  } 
Ah,  he  dared  not  ask !  He  feared  some  mystery, 
some  stain,  would  perhaps  deface  the  image  he  had 
formed  within  his  own  breast ;  some  dark  cloud  rest 
upon  the  memory  of  one  of  whom,  so  long  as  he  knew 


1 3  8  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

no  ill,  he  could  believe  every  thing  good  and  pure  and 
lovely.  Yes,  he  would  not  seek  to  draw  the  veil 
which  circumstances  had  placed  between  him  and  the 
past. 

But  it  was  a  strange  past ;  for  besides  the  little 
brown  l^ouse  on  the  sands,  the  gray  fogs,  the  long,  roll- 
ing waves  and  their  thunder  on  the  beach,  the  two  old 
people  whose  weather-beaten  visages  were  ever  pres- 
ent to  his  memory,  there  was  another  picture,  less 
distinct,  much  more  shadowy,  perhaps  only  a  dream, 
but  it  was  this,  — 

It  was  of  a  night,  balmy"  sweet,  full  of  soft  airs 
and  shining  with  stars  ;  of  a  garden  where  roses 
grew,  of  a  fountain  falling  from  dolphin  mouths  into 
marble  basins.  And  then  the  garden  changed  to  a 
ship,  creaking  and  pulling  at  the  ropes  which  held  it 
to  a  wharf  piled  with  bales  of  goods ;  the  scent  of 
roses  gave  place  to  the  smell  of  tar,  the  dripping 
fall  of  the  fountain  to  the  splash  of  waves  and  the 
hoarse  cries  of  seamen.  Some  one  bent  and  kissed 
him  ;  he  could  not  tell  whom,  but  it  seemed  to  him  it 
was  an  old  woman,  and  that  her  swinging  bead  neck- 
lace, as  well  as  a  tear,  touched  his  cheek.  Then  a 
man  held  him  in  his  strong  arms,  and  he  looked  up 
into  a  kindly  face,  not  unlike  grandfather  Marsh's, 
but  it  was  redder  and  rougher  than  grandfather's. 
Then  the  ship  sailed  out  into  the  night,  and  the  stars 
twinkled  in  the  water  as  well  as  in  the  sky.  But 
ship  and  water  and  stars  ended  as  they  do  in  dreams, 
with  a  start ;  and  he  was  again  seeking  clams  at  the 
Neck,  or  tugging  at  an  unruly  sail,  or  dragging 
home  a  string  of  fish  for  grandmother  Marsh  to  fry. 


ASPIRATIONS.  139 

"Tut,  what  foolishness  to  dream  in  this  way ! "  he 
would  say  to  himself,  giving  another  glance  at  the 
heavenly  blue  sky,  and  watching  the  flight  of  some 
pigeons  from  a  neighboring  window ;  then  he  would 
draw  his  easel  near,  and  arrange  the  colors  on  his 
palette,  and  with  rapid  touch  block  out  a  picture. 

He  was  doing  this  now,  when  a  knock  was  heard 
at  his  door,  followed  by  a  familiar,  "  Buon  giomo  T* 

"  Ah,  I  have  bearded  you  in  your  den  this  time  !  '* 
said  the  same  voice,  and  Branly  Potter  stalked  in. 
"The  lovely  Bianca  informed  me  I  should  find  you 
here.  I'm  drumming  for  that  confounded  garden- 
party,  as  you  may  suppose.  What  a  bore  it  is  to  be 
in  the  train  of  a  lot  of  women  who  have  nothing  to 
do  but  get  up  fairs  diVid  fetes  and  fal-lals  !  " 

"  I  should  have  supposed  it  entirely  to  your  taste, 
almost  a  vocation,"  responded  Lillo  dryly. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  would  ;  but  you  are  mistaken. 
I'm  tired  of  even  being  decently  civil  to  them  all, 
and  I  think  I'll  go  break  stones  on  the  roads  before 
long." 

"  Really,  this  is  serious.  Had  you  not  better  be- 
come a  courier .? " 

"  Worse  and  worse,  —  more  women  to  trot  round 
after.  No,  thank  you.  I'm  going  to  the  States  in 
the  fall." 

"What  to  do.?" 

"  Any  thing  that  turns  up ;  run  for  Congress,  per- 
haps." 

"But  what  has  happened  to  annoy  you  just  now? 
Has  the  fair  one  refused  to  smile  ? " 

"All   the  fair  ones  are  frowning.     Each  has  her 


140  ASPIRATIONS. 

own  particular  fish  to  fry.  One  needs  to  be  a  Machi- 
avelli  to  understand  them.  Mrs.  Coit  is  at  the  head 
of  \.\\\^fete,  and  was  amply  able  to  carry  it  through 
without  assistance.  But  so  soon  as  the  duchess's 
name  was  mentioned  in  connection  with  it,  the  flut- 
ter among  the  females  became  fearful.  So  many 
applications  have  been  made  to  take  part  in  it,  that 
half  the  foreign  population  will  be  enraged  to  have 
their  services  declined,  and  there  is  danger  of  selling 
no  tickets." 

"Now  is  the  chance  for  diplomacy.  Use  your 
skill." 

"  No ;  I  shall  let  them  fight  it  out,  and  then  wash 
my  hands  of  all  such  affairs  in  future.  I  am  tired  of 
being  a  *  vagabond,'  as  May  Alden  politely  puts  it." 

"  She  is  saucy." 

"  Yes ;  so  is  her  sister.  They  are  both  bright 
girls." 

"Very." 

"Miss  Morris  is  so  much  quieter  that  she  is 
thought  to  be  dull." 

"  It's  a  mistake." 

"  So  I  think.  She  wasn't  dull  when  she  faced  that 
Vedder  woman.     By  the  by,  do  you  know  her  sons  ? " 

"  Whose  sons  } " 

"Mrs.  Vedder' s." 

"  No  ;  I  never  heard  of  them  before." 

"  They  have  persecuted  me.  Th'ey  consider  me  an 
authority  on  art,  and  consequently  consult  me  about 
all  the  rubbish  they  are  going  to  cart  home.  Do 
you  know  Mrs.  Vedder  is  Miss  Morris's  aunt?  And 
it  is  rumored  she  is  going  back  with  her." 


ASPIRATIONS.  141 

"  Going  to  leave  Mr.  Barclay  ?  '* 

"  Yes.  It's  a  queer  move ;  I  am  quite  sure  she 
knew  little  of  her  before  they  met  here.  But  this  is 
all  gossip.  What  trade  would  you  advise  me  to  take 
up,  Marsh,  since  the  courier  suggestion  is  unavail- 
able t " 

"Bag  an  heiress." 

"  Thanks.  Your  suggestions  have  a  spice  of  sat- 
ire, as  if  my  accomplishments  were  only  in  the  line 
of  social  life." 

"As  they  are,  unquestionably." 

"  Then  you  painter  chaps  think  I'm  only  a  squire 
of  dames } " 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  limit  your  powers  ! " 

"  But  you  calmly  leave  it  to  be  supposed  that  is  all 
I  am  good  for.  Now,  in  return,  let  me  tell  you  that 
I  am  going  to  the  States  to  work,  not  to  dabble  in 
art  or  literature,  but  to  work  for  my  daily  bread  — 
with  my  brains  if  I  can,  but  with  my  hands  if  I  can't." 

"  Good !  Shake  hands.  I  hope  the  bread  will  be 
sweet,  in  spite  of  your  fling  at  my  profession." 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,  for  you  are 
in  earnest,  and  will  make  your  profession  subservient 
to  your  purpose,  —  viz.,  the  elevation  of  humanity, — 
where  others  make  it  only  the  vehicle  of  selfish  van- 
ity. Do  you  know  whose  face  is  coming  out  now  on 
your  canvas  ? " 

"  No,  I  am  only  experimenting." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  a  good  likeness  of  the  little 
Mayflower,  Ruth  Morris." 

"That  is  a  good  name  for  her.  Where  did  you 
get  it?" 


1 42  AS  PI R  A  TIONS, 

"  I  don*t  know,  —  the  Aldens  may  have  suggested 
it." 

Lillo  went  on  painting.  He  was  making  studies 
for  a  group  of  Puritans  going  to  church  in  the  simple, 
primitive  Colonial  days  of  New  England.  Sternly 
devoted  to  duty,  despite  the  danger  from  their  treach- 
erous foes,  the  men  indicated  the  need  of  caution,  not 
only  in  the  expression  of  their  faces,  but  in  the  wea- 
pons carried,  ready  for  use,  in  their  hands ;  and  the 
women  were  no  less  courageous. 

"  Yes,  I  will  get  her  to  pose  for  me,"  thought 
Lillo.  "She  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  who  would  have 
faced  these  dangers  with  resolute  calmness." 

He  quite  forgot  his  companion,  until  Mr.  Potter 
asked  him  for  his  contribution  to  th^fete. 

Then  he  explained  that  Mr.  Barclay  and  Miss 
Morris  had  chosen  a  sketch,  which  had  gone  to  be 
framed,  and  which  would  be  duly  on  exhibition, 
although  it  was  sold. 

"  Lucky  fellow,  to  have  such  good  friends,"  said 
Mr.  Potter.  "  Well,  Fll  go  then.  But  be  sure  you 
are  on  hand  on  the  25th,  for  I  don't  propose  to  be 
the  only  sacrificial  offering  to  the  fashionable  mob." 

Lillo  smiled.  No  man  less  needed  an  ally  than 
Branly  Potter.  Everybody  liked  him,  and  he  liked 
everybody,  though  he  pretended  to  great  fastidious- 
ness. 


ASPIRATIONS.  143 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  explain  how  it  had  come  about 
that  Mr.  Barclay  had  given  Ruth  permission  to  follow 
the  bent  of  her  inclination  in  joining  her  aunt  for  a 
while  —  for  a  little  while  only,  as  he  said  to  himself. 
He  had  no  intention  of  surrendering  her  to  her  rela- 
tives. He  was  a  whimsical  man,  as  we  know,  and 
being  so  made  him  indulgent  to  the  whims  of  others. 

Ruth  had  come  to  him  one  day,  fresh  from  Mrs. 
Vedder's  lonely  rooms  in  the  Casa  Doria,  with  a 
pitiful  tale  of  her  aunt's  sorrows. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  quite  so  homesick  as  my 
poor  aunt  Abby,  Mr.  Barclay  ;  she  enjoys  nothing, 
not  even  this  lovely  spring  weather,  and  only  longs 
for  her  sons  to  come.  But  they,  selfish  fellows,  now 
write  that  they  prefer  spending  the  summer  abroad, 
and  seem  quite  indifferent  to  either  her  loneliness  or 
her  wish  to  return.  If  you  could  spare  me,  my  dear 
guardian,"  —  Ruth  rarely  used  this  word,  but  she  was 
now  in  an  excited  mood,  —  "I  would  be  so  glad  to 
take  her  home." 

"  You  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barclay. 

"Yes.  The  poor  woman  would  be  immensely 
happy,  and  I —  Well,  I  should  feel  as  if  I  were 
doing  just  a  little  good." 


144  ASPIRATIONS. 

"My  dear  little  Samaritan,  have  you  considered 
what  you  are  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  have  indeed,"  replied  Ruth. 

"  But,  Ruth,  you  do  not  like  Mrs.  Vedder." 

Ruth  blushed. 

"  I  do  not  like  her  unrefinement,  but  I  have  really 
learned  to  look  a  little  below  the  surface.  She  has  a 
very  kind  heart." 

"Does  that  atone  for  the  thousand  and  one  things 
that  are  lacking  } " 

"  I  am  not  sure,  I  cannot  say ;  but  I  would  like  to 
help  her." 

"And  leave  me.?" 

"  Only  for  a  while,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"  I,  too,  have  been  thinking  you  should  have  some 
choice  in  the  matter  of  your  own  actions,  Ruth." 

Ruth  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Yes,  you  are  no  longer  a  child." 

"  You  do  not  suppose  I  have  any  wish  to  do  any 
thing  you  disapprove,  Mr.  Barclay  } " 

"  No :  you  are  very  transparent,  Ruth,  and  perhaps 
a  little  too  docile  for  your  own  strength.  I  think  I 
will  not  thwart  you  in  this  desire  to  be  of  use  to 
Mrs.  Vedder.  You  will  learn  more  than  you  think, 
but  you  must  be  prepared  for  disagreeables  and 
difficulties." 

"  And  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful } "  said 
Ruth  pleadingly. 

"  No,  dear,  no." 

Ruth  rose  and  kissed  her  guardian  with  a  bright 
smile,  saying, — 

"  Mrs.  Vedder  will  be  so  glad." 


ASPIRATIONS,  145 

"  She  ought  to  be,"  was  the  emphatic  reply. 

Then,  as  Ruth  left  the  room,  Mr.  Barclay  solilo- 
quized. 

"I  shall  be  very  dull  without  her,  —  she  is  a  dear 
child.  My  old  friend,  Dick  Morris,  never  did  a  wiser 
or  kinder  thing  than  in  leaving  her  to  me.  She  has 
made  my  life  worth  living ;  but  she  is,  in  truth,  no 
longer  a  child.'* 

And  then  Mr.  Barclay,  who  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  stopped  before  a  mirror  and  surveyed 
himself. 

He  saw  there  the  slender  figure  of  a  man  whose 
habits  had  not  been  productive  of  muscular  develop- 
ment, but  who  was  nevertheless  of  an  erect  and 
graceful  carriage.  The  face  did  not  indicate  the  ex- 
act years  that  had  passed  over  it,  though  the  hair  was 
beginning  to  be  more  than  silvery.  The  eyes  were 
clear  and  bright ;  and  if  at  their  corners  there  wdre 
some  lines  which  time  had  traced,  they  were  no 
deeper  than  the  furrows  which  care  and  toil  also  pro- 
duce in  younger  visages.  On  the  whole,  Mr.  Barclay, 
who  had  no  overplus  of  vanity,  and  who  was  quite 
willing  to  acknowledge  his  forty-eight  years,  had  to 
be  honest  with  himself  and  admit  that  many  younger 
men  might  envy  his  appearance.  But  at  the  same 
time  he  felt  really  older  than  he  was.  When  he  lost 
his  wife,  sorrow  had  made  him  its  prey.  He  had 
loved  her  deeply,  truly,  entirely, — as  a  man  only 
loves  once,  so  he  honestly  believed,  —  merging  his 
whole  being  into  that  of  the  object  so  loved ;  and  his 
heart  had  never  rebounded  from  the  shock  of  her 
loss.     This  had  aged  him,  and  made  him  indifferent 


146  ASPIRATIONS. 

to  much  that  interests  other  people.  He  hated 
novels,  with  their  everlasting  study  of  the  affections  ; 
he  avoided  music  of  the  sentimental  order ;  he  would 
not  go  to  see  a  tragedy ;  he  was  as  sensitive  to  the 
sight  of  lovers'  bliss  as  if  he  had  been  jilted,  — and 
yet  his  old  friend,  Miss  Alden,  had  asked  him  if  he 
were  going  to  marry  Ruth. 

That  question  had  recurred  to  him  again  and 
again ;  and,  though  to  him  its  absurdity  equalled  its 
vulgarity,  it  had  helped  him  to  decide  this  matter  of 
Ruth's  departure.  He  would  prove  how  false  and 
foolish  the  world  had  been  in  its  surmises,  and  how 
well  he  could  do  without  her  gentle  presence  ;  but  he 
was  afraid  the  poor  girl  would  suffer  from  the  con- 
tact with  her  vulgar  relatives. 

And  so,  with  not  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Barclay  knew 
the  gossip  she  had  heard,  Ruth  arrived  at  the  same 
conclusion  that  he  had  come  to;  viz.,  that  it  would  all 
be  forgotten  in  her  absence. 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Vedder  was  made  happy. 

"You  have  done  more  to  make  me  well  than  all 
the  doctors  in  the  world  could  do,"  she  said  to  Ruth. 
"I  wouldn't  have  believed  you  could  be  so  kind,  that 
first  night  I  met  you.  I  thought  you  were  awfully 
stuck  up, — you  were  as  stiff  as  a  poker,  —  but  you 
ain't.  You're  a  sweet  little  wild-rose,  just  such  as 
I've  often  picked  in  the  woods  at  Berryville." 

Ruth  laughed. 

"Tell  me  about  Berryville,  aunt  Abby." 

"  I  will,  —  only  too  glad  to,  — but  first  you  tell  me 
how  Mr.  Barclay  finds  it  in  his  heart  to  let  you  go 
away  from  him.     I  thought  —  people  say  "  — 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  l/^'J 

The  look  in  Ruth's  face  checked  her. 

"  Well,  I  don't  suppose  I  have  any  call  to  inquire, 
so  long  as  he  does  me  such  a  favor ;  but  I  really  don't 
see  how  he  can  do  it." 

"  He  seldom  refuses  a  reasonable  request,  and  he 
has  always  been  as  kind  to  me  as  if  he  were  really 
my  father." 

Ruth  emphasized  the  last  words  of  her  sentence ; 
and  Mrs.  Vedder  gave  a  little  shrug  to  her  shoulders, 
around  which  were  wrapped  a  costly  shawl,  that,  from 
its  dinginess,  might  have  been  worn  by  several  pashas. 

''Now  about  Berryville,  Ruth.  It's  an  ordinary 
country  town.  Your  uncle  Cauldwell  Boggs  has 
built  lots  of  houses  there,  and  it's  not  so  nice  as  it 
used  to  be  ;  but  I  like  it,  though  the  boys  don't.  They 
hate  it.  The  old  homestead  was  a  real  comfortable 
old  place.  Your  grandmother  —  my  oldest  sister 
Margaretta  —  was  born  there  ;  and  there  she  died, 
leaving  your  mother.  But  her  father  took  her  away 
when  she  was  little.  Old  Mr.  Sanders  was  very  queer. 
He  didn't  like  us,  and  we  didn't  like  him. 

"  I  suppose  he  is  dead,"  said  Ruth  casually. 

"  No,  he  isn't." 

"What !  have  I  a  grandfather,  then?" 

"  Yes,  such  as  he  is." 

Ruth  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  dubious  reply. 

"  Well,  he  is  queer,  you  know,"  went  on  her  aunt 
apologetically.  "  He  is  very  learned,  people  say.  He 
has  out-lived  all  his  sons  and  daughters,  and  he 
doesn't  seem  to  care  about  any  thing  but  his  books. 
When  brother  Cauldwell  told  him  that  you  had  been 
left  to  Mr.  Barclay,  he  only  said,  *  Ah !  indeed !  *  and 


1 48  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

that  made  Mr.  Boggs  mad;  for,  if  he  ain't  very  agree- 
able, he  has  some  spirit,  and  he  didn't  like  the  notion 
of  any  of  the  family  being  sort  o'  begging  of  a 
stranger." 

Ruth  winced.  What  dreadful  things  this  aunt 
could  say,  and  do  it,  too,  as  if  entirely  for  her  auditor's 
entertainment.  She  hardly  paused  to  take  breath : 
it  was  so  long  since  she  had  been  favored  with  so  good 
a  listener. 

"He  had  never  cared  for  Dick  Morris,  who  ran 
away  with  your  mother,  you  know  ;  and  he  had  no 
sort  o*  feeling  for  Cauldwell's  not  likin'  Mr.  Barclay, 
—  for  Cauldwell  didn't  like  his  offer  refused." 

Seeing  Ruth's  mystification,  she  explained,  "  Mr. 
Boggs  wanted  to  take  you  from  Mr.  Barclay,  but  he 
wouldn't  listen  to  him.  Perhaps  it  has  turned  out 
for  the  best,  for  Cauldwell  is  a  hard  man.  People 
are  apt  to  be  who  work  for  their  livin'  as  he  has  done, 
and  men  are  so  cantankerous." 

Ruth  smiled  at  her  aunt's  philosophy,  and  strove 
to  draw  her  out  on  a  more  interesting  theme  than 
chronology ;  but  Mrs.  Vedder  was  very  fond  of  going 
into  the  deeps  of  family  history,  and  of  climbing  the 
branches  of  her  ancestral  tree. 

"  The  Boggses  are  all  inclined  to  be  proud ;  and 
Cauldwell  thinks  because  he  has  made  a  fortune  he  is 
something  very  remarkable,  and  he  is  afraid  my  boys 
will  go  through  all  my  money.  It  wouldn't  matter 
much  to  me  if  they  did.  Money  is  a  great  bother. 
Mr.  Vedder  might  have  been  living  now,  if  he  hadn't 
worked  so  hard  to  get  it." 

Here  Mrs.  Vedder  whisked  a  tear  away,  and  went 
on, — 


ASPIRATIONS,  149 

"  Mr.  Sanders  lives  all  alone  in  the  city :  we  never 
see  him,  though." 

Ruth  suddenly  interrupted  her. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more  about  my  relations,  aunt 
Abby.  What  kind  of  a  place  is  Berryville?  Is  it 
very  rural,  with  arching  elms  and  maples,  such  as  I 
have  heard  are  so  beautiful  in  New-England  towns  ? " 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  wait  and  see ;  I  ain't  a  good 
hand  at  describin'.  I  like  the  city  and  all  the  shops. 
It's  awful  dull  in  the  country,  and  —  I  say,  Ruth,  do 
you  think  you  are  going  to  like  bein'  with  me,  after 
all?" 

There  seemed  to  be  some  doubt  in  her  aunt's  mind ; 
there  certainly  was  in  her  own,  but  the  girl  strove  to 
conquer  it. 

"  I  want  to  make  you  happier,  if  I  can,"  she  said 
modestly. 

"Well,"  replied  her  aunt,  "it  is  kind  of  you  to  give 
up  so  much  for  me ;  but,  now  tell  the  truth,  ain't  you 
tired  of  joggin'  all  over  Europe  a-sight-seein' .? " 

Ruth  laughed  merrily,  and  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  it's  very  queer:  the  boys  like  it  too, — Jim 
and  Charley.  Oh,  won't  they  be  surprised  to  hear 
I'm  going  home !  Let's  see,  we  leave  on  the  28th. 
They'll  get  my  letter  in  time  to  come  and  say  *good- 
by  '  if  they  want  to  ;  but  I  don't  believe  they  want  to. 
They're  so  fine  now  that  they're  sort  of  ashamed  of 
me." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Vedder,  aunt  Abby !  "  exclaimed  Ruth, 
pained  to  hear  a  mother  speak  thus  of  her  sons. 

"It's  just  the  truth,  anyhow;  and  Cauld well  would 
say  it  served  me  right." 


150  ASPIRATIONS, 

Ruth  inwardly  revolted  at  this  admission.  Sorry 
as  she  was  for  her  aunt,  this  was  one  of  the  things 
which  made  affection  for  her  impossible, — this  want 
of  proper  reserve,  this  absence  of  self-respect  and  dig- 
nity. Ruth  could  only  pity,  but  she  could  not  admire 
her  aunt.  The  prospect  of  spending  months  in  Mrs. 
Vedder's  society  was  not  an  agreeable  one ;  but  in 
doing  it  she  had  not  expected  pleasure :  a  higher 
motive  had  impelled  her,  and,  inspired  by  that,  she 
had  no  intention  of  withdrawing.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  a  relief  to  get  back  to  Miss  Marchbank's  calm 
and  quiet  presence,  and  to  Mr.  Barclay,  waiting  for 
his  tea. 

Although  they  were  in  a  great,  gloomy  Italian  pal- 
ace, the  room  had  an  air  not  wholly  foreign.  Mr. 
Barclay  always  carried  as  many  comforts  about  with 
him  as  an  Englishman  is  charged  with  doing.  His 
books,  pictures,  and  papers,  his  wife's  portrait,  his 
tiger-skin  rug,  his  American  lamp  and  folding-chairs, 
all  gave  the  apartment  a  cosiness  not  due  to  the  lofty 
walls,  the  deep '  embrasures,  and  the  flowery  balco- 
nies. Miss  Marchbank  was  never  without  her  work- 
basket  ;  and  now,  in  addition  to  all  these  things,  the 
table  was  set  for  tea  with  Mr.  Barclay's  own  Japan- 
ese service.  Ruth  sat  down  with  a  little  sigh,  partly 
of  fatigue,  partly  of  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Barclay  regarded  her  with  a  curious  sort  of 
glance,  questioning  without  words.  Miss  Marchbank, 
too,  seemed  expectant. 

"  It  is  quite  settled,"  said  Ruth  ;  "  we  are  to  go  on 
the  28th.  Have  you  heard  any  thing  definite  from 
your  friends.  Miss  Marchbank?" 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  151 

"  Yes.  A  letter  came  this  morning.  I  am  to  meet 
them  on  the  25th,  at  Genoa.  From  thence  we  start 
for  the  Pyrenees." 

"  But  you  will  not  then  stay  for  the  garden- 
party  ? " 

"  Impossible,  my  dear !  —  And  you,  Mr.  Barclay, 
will  you  remain  here } "  asked  Miss  Marchbank. 

Ruth  looked  eagerly  at  her  guardian. 

"  Yes,  for  the  present." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Marsh  was  announced.  Lillo 
came  in  at  the  right  moment.  Ruth  began  to  feel 
as  if  her  courage  had  been  overestimated,  when  these 
separations  were  so  near.  This  talk  of  departure  was 
painful.  But  now  the  current  turned.  Mr.  Marsh 
had  brought  the  picture  for  the  fete.  It  was  a 
lovely  head,  —  a  child's  soft-featured  face,  with  great, 
glowing  eyes,  and  a  tangled  mass  of  curls ;  just  such 
a  child  as  one  might  see  at  any  time  down  beneath 
the  balcony,  tossing  pebbles  with  its  companions. 
The  picture  was  set  in  an  old  frame  of  niello-work, 
mounted  on  garnet  velvet. 

**  How  lovely  !  "  "  How  picturesque  !  "  came  from 
the  ladies. 

Mr.  Barclay  looked  at  it  critically. 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  model  .-' "  he  asked. 

*'  I  had  none,"  replied  Lillo,  laughing 

"  But  how  can  that  be  }  The  face  is  familiar.  It 
looks  like  some  one  I've  seen  before." 

"  That  is  not  improbable.  The  commonest  Italian 
child  has  a  typical  face." 

"  Yes,  that  is  true.  But  where  have  I  seen  this  1 
Ha  !  I  remember,  now.     It  looks  like  the  boy  I  saw 


1 5  2  ASPIRA  TIONS, 

at  Cod  town,  years  and  years  ago,  —  your  own  self,  I 
verily  believe." 

Lillo  did  not  deny  it.  On  the  contrary,  he  told 
them  that  it  had  been  worked  up  partly  from  his 
own  features,  partly  from  a  silhouette  which  he 
possessed. 

Ruth  compared  it  now  with  the  man's  face  before 
her,  and  also  saw  the  likeness  ;  though  it  was,  of 
course,  more  in  feature  than  in  expression.  There 
was  the  same  dreamy  depth  in  the  eyes  ;  but  the 
child's  face  had  a  delicacy  and  richness  of  color,  and 
the  subtle,  imaginative  qualities  which  were  due  to 
the  artist,  and  not  to  his  model.  Perhaps  Ruth  saw 
more  in  the  man's  than  in  the  child's  face  to  admire ; 
it  certainly  was  one  of  strength  and  penetration  and 
fine  expressiveness.  But  looking  at  first,  as  she 
would  have  done  at  any  two  things,  to  compare  them, 
she  suddenly  became  conscious  that  one  of  them  was 
not  a  picture  ;  for  her  gaze  drooped  under  the  return 
glance  of  admiration  and  inquiry,  which  quite  as 
innocently  had  been  bestowed  upon  her. 

The  evening  was  warm,  and  they  all  drew  near  the 
balcony.  Mr.  Barclay  and  Lillo  discussed  art  and 
artists.  The  elder  man  was  fluent,  and  a  good  con- 
versationalist ;  the  younger  a  better  listener,  but  by 
no  means  backward  in  responding.  During  the  dis- 
cussion, Lillo  mentioned  that  the  duchess  had  paid 
him  a  visit,  and  commissioned  him  to  paint  her  a 
picture. 

"  Ah,  did  I  not  predict  good  fortune  for  you } " 
queried  Ruth. 

"  Yes.     The  visit  was  due  to  the  fact  that  she  had 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  153 

seen  the  picture  destined  for  the  fete.  She  came 
across  it  at  the  frame-maker's,  where  she  was  ordering 
work.  I  am  quite  surprised  to  find  her  so  simple 
and  plain  a  person.  I  had  the  rustic  idea  that  a 
duchess  would  be  rather  unapproachable." 

"  The  Americans  outrival  the  English  in  exalting 
rank,"  observed  Miss  Marchbank,  tossing  back  her 
cap-ribbons. 

"  Is  it  not  natural  that  all  imaginative  persons, 
Miss  Marchbank,  should  environ  those  who  occupy 
exalted  positions  with  a  little  halo  of  superiority?" 

**  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Barclay,  I  am  not  sufficiently 
gifted  to  be  able  to  say ;  but  I  do  know  that  tuft 
hunting  is  as  much  practised  by  those  who  live  under 
a  republican  as  a  monarchical  government." 

Lillo  laughed,  as  he  said,  — 

"  It  matters  nothing  to  me  whether  Mrs.  Smith  or 
the  Duchess  of  Stickingham  buys  my  pictures.  Ap- 
preciation is  what  an  artist  most  covets.  I  should 
even  spurn  their  money,  only  that  it  is  a  proof  of  the 
estimate  put  upon  one's  work." 

Ruth  gave  him  a  sympathetic  little  nod  of  approval, 
but  Mr.  Barclay  laughed  at  the  youthful  zeal. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  you  will  outgrow  that  senti- 
ment !  "• 

"  Never,"  said  Lillo  firmly.  "  I  hate  the  commer- 
cial spirit.  It  is  ruinous  to  art ;  it  degrades  and 
defiles." 

"  You  look  at  it  in  the  wrong  light.  Trade  is  one 
of  the  necessary  evils  of  civilization." 

"I  decline  to  believe  in  necessary  evils." 

"  Perhaps  that  word  was  not  well  chosen.     *  Evil ' 


1 5  4  AS  PI R A  TIONS, 

is  a  strong  term  to  apply ;  *  barrier  *  would  have  been 
better." 

"  Truly  trade  is  a  barrier  to  aspiration,  to  cultiva- 
tion even  of  the  moral  faculties." 

"  Ah,  you  run  away  with  an  idea !  I  did  not  mean 
you  to  take  it  in  that  sense.  It  is  the  barrier  to 
greed,  to  man's  trampling  upon  the  right  of  another. 
It  is  one  of  the  things  to  be  used  and  not  abused. 
In  its  simplest  form,  what  was  it  but  a  mere  exchange 
of  necessities  between  barbarians  .''  " 

"  It  has  outgrown  all  the  limitations  of  necessity." 

*'  I  am  not  so  sure.  Certainly,  values  are  factitious  ; 
but  that  is  because  we  are  no  longer  primitive  men. 
Even  our  wants  are  of  an  abstract  nature.  We  no 
longer  have  to  depend  upon  our  skill  as  marksmen 
for  our  meat,  nor  upon  the  hides  of  animals  for  our 
clothing ;  but  we  must  have  beauty,  grace,  order,  re- 
pose, companionship,  —  things  that  delight  the  mind, 
—  or  we  starve  intellectually  and  socially." 

Ruth  listened  eagerly  for  the  reply. 

"And  are  these  a  matter  of  barter,  Mr.  Barclay?" 
questioned  Lillo. 

"  More  or  less,  yes." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  was  the  response. 
*' These  things  are  to  be  wrested  from  the  world  by 
the  individual,  as  truly  as  the  savage  won  his  daily 
food  by  his  own  prowess." 

The  talk  went  on  after  this  in  a  leisurely  way. 
The  soft  south  wind  bore  upon  its  wings  the  odor  of 
violets;  the  tinkling  bells  of  tambourines  sounded  in 
the  distance  ;  the  splash  of  the  fountain  in  its  mar- 
ble basin  lulled  its  little  melody.     In  a  human  heart 


ASPIRATIONS.  155 

had  a  sweeter  melody  begun.    Who  knows  just  when 
and  where  love  is  born  ? 

As  the  conversation  languished,  merry  voices 
broke  upon  the  stillness,  and  Miss  Alden  with  her 
nieces  entered 


156  ASPIRATIONS, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  25th  of  May  dawned,  as  a  day  set  apart  for  a 
gracious  purpose  ought  to  dawn,  benignantly.  It 
was  indeed  the  perfection  of  spring  and  early  sum- 
mer, —  a  warmth  and  breeziness,  a  fresh,  dewy, 
sweet-scented  atmosphere,  and  a  sunny  sky. 

Early  in  the  day  a  throng  of  pleasure-seekers  set 
forth  for  the  Romano  Gardens,  where  Mrs.  Coit's 
festa  was  to  take  place;  and  to  the  glad  ring  of 
merry  voices  came  the  answering  song  of  hundreds 
of  birds.  The  hedges  were  white  with  roses.  The 
oranges  were  in  blossom,  and  the  locust-trees  were 
hung  with  fragrant  tassels. 

In  the  carriages  were  bright  toilets,  vieing  in  fresh- 
ness and  color  with  the  blossoming  shrubs ;  and 
everywhere  —  from  the  silken  bodice  of  the  belle,  the 
buttonhole  of  the  dandy,  to  the  ears  of  the  horses, 
and  the  padded  breasts  of  the  liv&ried  servants  — 
were  flowers,  flowers  en  masse,  or  in  a  single  creamy 
bud. 

Ruth  had  gone  out  early  with  the  Aldens  to 
superintend  the  arrangement  of  the  bazar,  but  Miss 
Marchbank  had  vetoed  the  wearing  of  any  badge  or 
costume ;  her  only  concession  to  the  wishes  of  the 
others  was  in  allowing  Ruth  to  appear  in  white. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  157 

The  road  leading  to  the  Romano  Gardens  com- 
manded fine  views,  but  became  on  nearer  approach 
merely  a  private  path,  hardly  wide  enough  for  two 
vehicles  abreast,  and  quite  shut  in  by  a  dense  growth 
of  forest  trees  ;  so  that  the  impatient  guests  found  it 
pleasanter  to  dismount  and  walk  to  the  arching  en- 
trance, which,  with  its  carved  buttresses  and  heavy 
iron  gates,  looked,  as  May  expressed  it,  "  more  like 
the  approach  to  a  cemetery  than  to  a  palace." 

But  palace  there  was,  —  at  least  such  as  remained 
untouched  of  Time ;  and,  though  the  solid  stone 
showed  modern  additions  of  brick  and  stucco,  there 
was  still  an  imposing  breadth  and  grace  in  the 
structure. 

Architecturally  it  bore  evidence  of  age,  and  diver- 
sity of  taste  on  the  part  of  its  builders.  With  the 
revival  of  Greek  learning  in  Italy,  came  also  renewed 
admiration  for  the  noble  forms  of  Grecian  art ;  and 
the  student  could  trace  in  this  Romano  Palace  various 
types, — from  the  remains  of  its  barbaric  beginnings 
as  a  stronghold,  to  the  lighter  Corinthian  capitals 
decorating  the  peaceful  fagade. 

The  habitable  portion  was  closed  and  barricaded, 
the  uninhabitable  portion  left  to  the  embrace  of  moss 
and  lichen  and  overhanging  vines, — less  useful,  but 
more  picturesque. 

The  gardens,  however,  were  in  very  beautiful  order, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  the  gardener  reaped  a  harvest 
from  them  both  in  flowers  and  in  fruit.  Devotion 
to  the  family  might  have  induced  him  to  keep  out 
intruders,  but  hardly  to  spend  on  them  the  time  and 
trouble  to  which  their  careful  appearance  bore  wit- 


158  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

ness.  But  the  gay  procession  quickly  sped  past  beds 
of  broccoli  and  asparagus,  to  the  brilliant  parterres 
which  yielded  less  substantial  delights ;  and  even 
beyond  the  roses  and  violets,  to  the  dense  shrubbery 
of  ilex  and  pine,  and  the  more  stately  growth  of  for- 
est trees.  For  here  was  shade  and  coolness ;  and 
here  were  splashing  fountains  and  rustic  arbors,  and 
gnarled  roots  twisted  into  seats ;  and  here  was  spread 
the  table  of  pretty  trifles,  with  also  the  refreshing 
ices  and  light  viands  which  a  bevy  of  gay  girls  dis- 
pensed. 

The  scene  was  pretty  enough  for  a  Watteau. 

The  dense  foliage,  lightened  by  the  glittering  sun- 
beams ;  the  velvet  sward ;  the  beautiful  glimpses 
here  and  there  of  distant  fields  where  cattle  grazed, 
— all  forming  a  charming  background  for  the  people. 

Mrs.  Coit's  delicate  face  and  figure  beside  the 
Duchess  of  Stickingham's  robust  charms  were  like 
the  lily  and  the  paeony ;  though  both  were  in  cos- 
tumes which  were  the  contempt  of  many  of  the  be- 
holders from  the  absence  of  cost  in  their  preparation. 
What  was  the  use  of  being  a  millionnaire  or  a 
duchess  if  one  could  not  dress  better  than  that } 

Mrs.  Coit  was  in  a  lilac  muslin,  as  delicate  as  the 
wistaria  blossoms ;  the  duchess,  in  leafy  brown  of  two 
or  three  tints, — and  neither  wore  diamonds.  Their 
deficiency  in  that  respect,  however,  was  made  up  by 
Mrs.  Godfrey  Gray,  who  sparkled  and  flashed  like  a 
prism.  She  had  a  dainty  little  person,  and  her  robes 
were  a  marvel  of  the  dress-making  art.  No  wonder, 
with  her  chic  and  dash  and  love  of  splendor,  that  she 
disdained  lesser  luminaries. 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  1 59 

"Positively,  T  never  saw  such  a  fright  as  that 
Englishwoman,"  she  said  to  May,  whose  white  silk 
and  rose-wreathed  hat  became  her  wonderfully;  "and 
Mrs.  Coit  is  dressed  like  a  shop-girl." 

"  Or  a  shepherdess,"  put  in  Mr.  Morton  lazily. 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  appropriate,"  said  May ; 
"she  is  a  picture  just  as  she  stands." 

Mrs.  Gray  smiled  scornfully.  She  liked  May  Alden 
in  spite  of  the  decided  way  in  which  they  often  dif- 
fered. "  But  come,"  she  said,  "  let  us  look  at  the 
fancy  things.  "^I  haven't  much  interest  in  the  Protes- 
tant schools.  The  Italians  make  better  Catholics. 
But  the  money  may  as  well  go  one  way  as  another, 
and  the  fun  is  in  spending.  One  never  expects  their 
money's  worth  in  a  place  like  this." 

As  she  approached  the  tables,  Grace  Alden  whis- 
pered to  Ruth,  "Behold  the  tempter!  How  she  jin- 
gles and  jangles !  And  May  is  as  a  spider  in  her 
web.  That  slender  youth,  who  looks  as  if  he  hadn't 
two  ideas  beyond  the  cut  of  his  coat,  is  Mr.  Morton. 
He  is  one  of  our  jetmesse  dor^ ;  "  and  Grace  sighed, 
thinking  how  far,  far  superior  was  her  poor  young 
lover,  toiling  away  at  his  clerkly  duties,  and  how 
unjustly  the  good  things  of  life  were  divided. 

Ruth  had  no  time  to  reply,  for  already  Mrs.  God* 
frey  Gray,  with  one  ear  for  the  waltz  which  the  band 
had  struck  up,  and  the  other  for  the  sallies  of  a 
young  naval  officer  who  was  one  of  a  gallant  deputa- 
tion from  an  American  man-of-war  lying  in  the  Medi- 
terranean, was  stripping  the  table  of  its  prettiest 
treasures. 

"  How  much.  Miss  Morris  ? "  she  was  saying,  at 


l6o  ASPIRATIONS, 

the  same  time  pouring  out  gold  pieces  from  the  silken 
meshes  of  a  dainty  purse,  when  her  eye  caught  sight 
of  the  picture  of  the  Italian  child,  which  in  its  velvet 
and  niello-work  frame  was  a  conspicuous  ornament. 
"  How  much  ?  Oh,  but  I  must  have  that !  Sold  !  do 
you  say?  Oh,  no  !  I  will  pay  ever  so  much  more,  and 
you  can  get  the  artist  to  paint  another." 

"  The  artist  must  speak  for  himself,"  answered 
Ruth,  turning  with  a  graceful  movement  towards 
Lillo,  who  had  just  drawn  near.  "This  picture  has 
passed  out  of  his  possession,  and  is  not  to  be  had, 
Mrs.  Gray." 

The  words  were  uttered  by  Ruth  in  a  firm,  though 
gentle,  manner ;  but  Mrs.  Gray  pouted  and  fretted 
with  almost  childish  petulance,  attracting  the  atten- 
tion of  everybody,  and  there  was  then  quite  a  crush  of 
people.  One  person  stopped  and  looked  with  near- 
sighted inspection  at  the  coveted  picture.  As  he  did 
so,  he  drew  out  his  glasses,  exclaiming  in  Italian,  — 

"  Remarkable  !  peculiar  !  interesting  !  " 

Then  turning  to  Ruth,  he  said  in  broken  Eng- 
lish, — 

"  I  could  show  you  something  very  like  this  in  the 
chdteau  over  there,"  pointing  towards  the  chimneys 
of  the  palace,  which  were  but  just  visible  above  the 
trees. 

"Indeed!"  said  Ruth,  glad  of  a  diversion  from 
Mrs.  Gray's  assumed  anger.  "Are  strangers  allowed 
to  enter.?" 

"  Not  usually,"  replied  the  gentleman,  "  but  I  can 
get  in  if  I  wish.     Would  you  like  to  go  } " 

"  Very  much.     And  here  is  Mr.  Marsh ;  I  am  sure 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 6 1 

he  would  enjoy  such  a  privilege  if  there  are  any  art- 
treasures  to  be  seen." 

**  Permit  me,  then,  to  introduce  myself  as  M. 
Petitspains,  a  solicitor  attached  to  the  Romano 
family,"  answered  the  stranger  politely.  "  I  have  the 
honor  to  know  Mr.  Marsh  by  reputation." 

Ruth  glanced  at  the  spare,  dried-up,  little  old  man, 
and  wondered  if  her  guardian  would  object  to  her  go- 
ing to  the  palace  under  his  guidance.  Miss  March- 
bank  was  making  her  adieux  to  friends  here,  there, 
and  everywhere  ;  Miss  Alden  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Grace  could  not  be  induced  to  go.  She  had  a  letter 
to  read  in  her  pocket  when  occasion  offered,  and  this 
would  be  the  occasion  if  only  they  would  all  go  and 
leave  her.  Lillo  was  ready  to  act  as  escort.  He 
had  never  seen  Ruth  looking  lovelier.  She  was  in 
white,  gauzy,  filmy,  delicate  white,  with  the  jauntiest 
little  cottage-bonnet  trimmed  wdth  daises.  Her 
cheeks  were  just  pink  enough  to  redeem  them  from 
the  charge  of  pallor ;  for  the  heat  was  apt  to  whiten 
rather  than  redden  them,  and  she  was  getting  tired 
standing  so  long. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  gone  off  with  May  in  her  train,  and 
all  her  courtiers  laden  with  spoils.  Dancing  had  be- 
gun, and  the  throng  had  left  them. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  the  palace,'*  said  Ruth, 
"  but  I  wish  I  could  find  Mr.  Barclay.  He  might 
think  it  strange  for  me  to  go  without  him." 

"Oh,  no,  he  won't !  "  said  Grace,  nervously  anxious 
to  be  rid  of  them.  "  I  will  tell  him  where  you  are,  and 
perhaps  he  will  follow.  There  he  is  now ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. 


1 62  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"  We  will  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  palace, 
Mr.  Barclay,"  said  Ruth,  presenting  the  solicitor. 

"Yes:  well,  I  will  go  to,  if  permitted,"  was  the 
response :  so  they  strolled  off,  the  little  solicitor  glad 
of  so  interested  an  auditor  as  Mr. Barclay  proved  him- 
self. 

The  way  was  not  the  one  open  to  visitors,  but 
through  by-paths ;  and  these  were  so  overgrown  that 
more  than  once  Ruth's  delicate  lace  was  caught  by 
briars.  She  tried  to  free  herself,  but  each  time  had 
to  allow  Lillo  to  disentangle  her.  The  little  solicitor 
was  delighted  to  -find  that  Mr.  Barclay  preferred 
French  to  Italian,  and  was  now  deep  in  an  account 
of  the  Romano  litigation,  which  to  him  involved  all 
Italy. 

In  that  charming  saunter,  with  the  echoes  of  the 
music  following  them,  and  the  silence  of  the  grim 
old  chateau  beckoning  to  its  mysteries,  a  word  or  two 
was  said  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Is  it  well  to  attempt  to  delineate  too  closely  the 
delicate  bloom,  the  first  fair  freshness,  of  a  blossom, 
unless  we  have  the  brush  of  a  genius,  the  power  of  a 
master  1  Will  not  the  effect  of  color  answer  the  pur- 
pose } 

Did  Mr.  Barclay  notice  the  elation,  the  light  joy- 
ousness  of  these  two  young  people }  or  was  he  too 
absorbed  in  this  curious  mosaic  work  of  legal  diffi- 
culties which  his  enthusiastic  companion  was  point- 
ing out  to  him } 

They  resiched  the /forU  coc/ieW  of  a  side  entrance, 
and  paused  while  M.  Petitspains  went  off  to  procure 
keys.     He  soon  returned,  followed  by  an  old  man, 


ASPIRATIONS.  163 

who  scrutinized  them  closely,  but  made  no  observa- 
tions. 

Unlocking  the  smallest  of  three  doors,  he  led  them 
into  a  vestibule,  which  opened  at  once  into  a  wide 
hall,  lighted  from  above,  and  around  which  ran  a  cor 
ridor  with  other  doors  opening  into  vast  suites  of 
apartments.  The  chill  of  emptiness,  and  the  desola- 
tion of  silence,  reigned  everywhere.  The  floors  were 
of  marble,  the  walls  were  partly  of  stone  and  stucco, 
and  the  woodwork  of  a  heavy  order,  but  so  garnished 
with  white  paint  and  gold  arabesques  that  the  natural 
formation  could  not  be  detected. 

Ruth  looked  about  with  a  little  sensation  of  awe, 
and  the  aversion  of  youth  to  the  chill  loneliness  of  an 
uninhabited  house.  Mr.  Barclay's  critical  gaze  dis- 
approved of  the  loading  of  so  much  fine  timber  with 
heavy  coats  of  paint.  The  solicitor  stood  in  mute 
and  respectful  admiration  ;  while  Lillo  was  the  only 
one  of  the  party,  except  the  old  man  with  the  keys, 
who  was  unconstrained.  In  truth,  the  place  seemed 
familiar  to  him,  doubtless  because  he  had  seen  so 
many  old  palaces  in  his  rambles. 

They  now  ascended  the  broad  staircase,  and  were 
ushered  into  a  gallery,  the  heavy  shutters  of  which 
had  to  be  unbarred.  This  done,  the  golden  sunlight 
streamed  into  the  dusty  apartment,  lighting  up  the 
stately  rows  of  pictures  which  hung  upon  the  walls, 
revealing  many  the  value  of  which  was  well  known 
to  connoisseurs. 

*'  Here,  monsieur,"  said  the  withered  little  solicit- 
or, leading  the  way  to  a  distant  corner.  "This  is 
the  very  vraisemb lance  of  the  picture  at  your  bazar. 


1 64  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

Look !  Am  I  not  right  in  discovering  the  simili- 
tude ? " 

Lillo  laughingly  acknowledged  the  truth  of  the 
statement,  though  the  picture  was  of  an  older  youth, 
and  the  costume  that  of  mediaeval  days.  Mr.  Barclay 
also  saw  it ;  and  Ruth  might  have  done  so  had  she 
not  been  struck  with  the  strange  actions  of  the  old 
key-bearer,  who  was  shuffling  about  impatiently,  but 
at  the  same  time  watching  the  party  with  an  inten- 
sity of  observation  for  which  she  could  not  account. 
At  first  his  gaze  had  wandered  from  one  to  the  other, 
but  at  last  it  had  rested  exclusively  on  the  painter ; 
and  the  crafty  look  had  changed  to  open-eyed  aston- 
ishment, and  finally  to  fear,  which  increased  as  foot- 
steps neared,  and  an  old  woman  hobbled  into  the 
gallery. 

She  was  in  the  rough,  woollen  gown  of  the  Italian 
peasant,  with  the  white  camicia  and  red  bodice ; 
around  her  withered  old  throat  still  clung  the  neck- 
lace of  gold  beads  without  which  a  peasant  must  be 
poor  indeed.  Her  gray  hair,  uncovered  by  cap  or 
tooaglia,  was  drawn  straight  back  from  her  forehead, 
beneath  which  glittered  eyes  of  remarkable  bright- 
ness. Though  bent  with  rheumatism,  she  did  not 
walk  feebly;  and,  judging  from  the  rapidity  of  the 
words  addressed  to  the  man  with  the  keys,  her  mind 
certainly  was  not  as  infirm  as  her  body. 

She  seemed  to  be  reproaching  her  companion  for 
some  misdemeanor,  as  he  moved  uneasily  away,  and 
sought  to  make  her  withdraw.  But  her  impetuous 
flow  of  language  only  increased  ;  and,  approaching  the 
visitors,  she  began  another  harangue  in  Italian  of  so 


ASPIRATIONS.  165 

provincial  a  dialect  that  only  M.  Petitspains  could 
understand  even  a  few  words, 

"  She  is  annoyed  that  Girolamo  should  have  allowed 
us  to  enter  to-day.  She  fears  that  the  whole  crowd 
in  the  gardens  will  wish  to  follow,  and  she  rebukes 
him  for  his  imprudence.  I,  however,  will  explain  to 
her  that  we  will  say  nothing  to  the  others  to  suggest 
such  a  wish,"  went  on  monsieur,  not  noticing,  as 
Ruth  did,  the  sudden  cessation  of  the  old  woman's 
voluble  speech,  and  a  sudden  pallor  and  a  quick 
movement.  In  another  instant  she  had  fallen, — 
not  prone,  not  insensible,  —  but  on  her  knees.  They 
all  sprang  forward,  but  she  pushed  them  violently 
aside,  detaining  only  Lillo  in  a  strong  grasp,  and 
gazing  upon  him  with  a  look  which  combined  aston- 
ishment, pleasure,  and  affection.  Then,  bursting 
into  tears,  she  tossed  her  linen  apron  over  her  face, 
and  sobbed  aloud. 


I  ^  ASPIRA  TIONS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Left  to  herself  a  moment,  for  all  the  girls  had  gone 
to  dance,  and  the  matrons  were  counting  their  gains, 
Grace  Alden  drew  her  letter,  with  its  American  post- 
mark, from  her  pocket,  and  sat  down  to  its  perusal. 
Though  nothing  of  a  beauty,  and  far  less  attractive 
in  manner  than  her  bright  young  sister,  Grace 
Alden's  physiognomy  had  good  points, — a  broad 
brow,  steady,  well-opened  eyes,  a  nose  which  might 
have  been  smaller,  and  a  mouth  less  generous ;  but 
her  complexion  —  that  charm  so  easily  acquired  in 
these  days  of  rouge  and  powder  —  was  clear  and  rosy, 
and  when  she  smiled  she  displayed  very  even  and 
white  teeth.  The  lovely  day,  the  delicious  air,  and, 
above  all,  the  possession  of  her  letter,  had  put  her 
in  a  good  humor ;  and  as  she  opened  her  red  parasol 
and  fastened  it  in  a  convenient  crevice,  and  drew  her 
skirts  of  creamy  silk  away  from  the  inspection  of 
ants  and  caterpillars,  — displaying  thereby  very  pretty 
silk  stockings  and  equally  pretty  feet,  —she  was  a 
very  fair  sight  to  behold.  A  smile  of  sweet  satisfaction 
was  on  her  lips,  a  loving  light  in  her  eyes ;  but,  as  she 
read,  the  smile  faded,  the  light  was  quenched,  and 
the  small  white  hand  crushed  unconsciously  the  few 
blossoms  which  it  held  into  a  shapeless  mass,  and, 


ASPIRATIONS.  167 

before  the  letter  was  finished,  the  girl  had  swooned, 
—  fallen  all  in  a  heap  among  her  silken  fineries,  with 
her  red  parasol  on  top  of  her  like  a  danger-signal. 
How  long  she  remained  thus,  she  did  not  know  or 
care,  for  after  a  while  consciousness  returned,  and 
she  managed  to  get  upon  her  feet ;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment, sailing  down  the  path  in  stately  and  solitary 
dignity,  came  Miss  Marchbank. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Alden  ! "  she  exclaimed,  startled 
at  the  pale  face  before  her,  but  controlling  the  ap- 
pearance of  surprise,  "you  are  not  well.  Has  any 
thing  happened  ?     Shall  I  go  for  Miss  Alden  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  responded  Grace,  "  I  beg  you 
will  not  alarm  any  one ;  but  if  you  can  get  a  carriage 
and  send  me  home,  I  will  be  very  grateful." 

"But  your  sister  or  Miss  Alden  ought  to  be  in- 
formed." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Grace  eagerly.  "  Why  should 
their  pleasure  be  spoiled  by  my  temporary  illness } 
Please  oblige  me,  Miss  Marchbank,  by  saying  noth- 
ing of  it  till  you  get  me  off ;  but  pray  do  that  as 
quickly  as  you  can." 

Miss  Marchbank  was  a  woman  of  decision. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly;  I  will  do  what  I 
can  for  you.  Here  is  my  bottle  of  salts,  which  I  am 
never  without,"  and  she  unfastened  her  vinaigrette 
from  her  girdle  :  "  use  it  till  I  return ;"  and,  re-seating 
Grace  very  gently,  she  turned  away,  returning  almost 
immediately  with  a  carriage, — as  near  as  it  could  be 
brought,  —  and  Branly  Potter  as  her  aid.  Useless 
were  Grace's  remonstrances.  Both  of  them  supported 
her,  and  both  of  them  insisted  upon  returning  with 


1 6S  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

her  to  the  city.  In  vain  she  plead  and  besought;  for 
her  one  supreme  wish  was  to  be  alone,  to  hide  herself 
and  her  agony.  But,  after  all,  it  was  better  thus  than 
if  her  aunt  or  sister  had  been  with  her;  for  Miss 
Marchbank,  though  a  little  fussy,  was  very  kind. 
But  it  seemed  an  age  before  the  laughing  voices  and 
falling  waters  and  cadences  'of  the  music  were  left 
behind,  and  another  age  before  they  were  on  the 
high  road  for  the  city. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  speak ;  and  her  white  face, 
with  its  strained  and  tense  expression  of  pain,  made 
it  only  too  evident  to  her  companions  that  conversa- 
tion would  be  insupportable.  To  have  her  carried  to 
her  apartment,  send  for  a  physician,  and  quietly  un- 
dress her  charge,  was  Miss  Marchbank's  resolve ;  and 
she  executed  it  without  delay,  writing  also  a  note  to 
Miss  Alden,  which  Mr.  Potter  promised  to  deliver. 

Grace  submitted  to  all  in  silence.  She  knew  that 
it  was  useless  to  resist ;  but  she  knew  too  that  her 
illness  was  not  to  be  dispelled  by  the  customary 
"limonado"  which  Italian  doctors  seemed  to  think 
sufficient  for  all  ailments,  though  she  swallowed  the 
cooling  draught,  and  submitted  to  a  hot  foot-bath. 
But  beneath  her  pillow  lay  the  biting  sting  of  her 
disease,  which  she  had  hidden  there  for  fear  of  May's 
suspicious  glance.  To  the  dull  pain  which  had  suc- 
ceeded the  sharp  agony,  came  now  also  the  remorseful 
thought,  that,  in  her  own  misery,  she  had  forgotten 
her  sister,  and  this  was  the  evening  of  the  masked 
ball. 

This  thought  did  not  come  to  her  till  long  after 
she  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  in  the  darkened  room 


ASPIRATIONS.  169 

Miss  Marchbank  was  sitting  silently  beside  her.  But 
now  it  was  too  late  to  do  any  thing.  Mr.  Potter  had 
gone  back  to  the///^,  the  day  was  nearly  over.  Her 
thoughts  became  clouded.  She  was  again  a  child, 
wandering  in  green  fields,  listening  to  the  birds,  or 
she  was  tossing  on  the  ocean.  Scene  after  scene  pre- 
sented itself  ;  and  then  a  familiar  voice  called  her,  and 
she  sat  bolt  upright,  until  Miss  Marchbank's  gentle 
force  obliged  her  to  recline  again. 

The  day  had  fled  with  rapidity.  Dance  succeeded 
dance ;  and  now  long  shadows  lay  upon  the  velvet 
turf.  Every  one  was  going.  May  Alden  had  been 
the  centre  of  a  gay  group  all  the  afternoon.  Even 
Mrs.  Gray  had  danced  no  more,  and  been  no  more 
the  recipient  of  gallantries  and  adulation. .  Her  co- 
quetry, her  wit,  her  archness,  her  beauty,  had  won 
all  the  naval  officers ;  and  the  lazy  Mr.  Morton  had 
worked  himself  into  the  belief  that  May  had  bestowed 
her  tenderest  glances  and  brightest  sallies  upon  him. 

Whether  there  is  a  limit  even  to  vanity  and  its 
successes,  I  leave  for  others  to  determine ;  but  cer- 
tainly May's  brightness  and  gayety  suddenly  waned. 
She  had  entirely  avoided  her  sister  and  Ruth.  She 
had  kept  away  from  Miss  Alden,  who,  indeed,  was  im- 
mersed in  Mrs.  Coit  and  the  duchess ;  and  she  had 
adhered  to  Mrs.  Gray  with  the  determination  of  fol- 
lowing her  fancy  to  its  utmost  limit.  But  now,  sitting 
at  her  leisure  in  the  luxurious  victoria,  having  resisted 
all  her  aunt's  "  becks  and  nods  and  wreathed  smiles," 
she  lapsed  into  a  silence  and  revery  so  entirely  in 
contrast  to  her  former  jubilant  spirits,  that  Mr.  Mor- 
ton was  puzzled  to  observe  it.     Mrs.  Gray  did  not 


I/O  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

trouble  herself  to  observe  any  thing.  Her  vis  a  vis 
was  a  new  capture,  a  fresh  sensation  ;  and  she  was 
enchanted  to  find  him  absorbed  in  her  charms,  to 
the  neglect  of  all  others. 

The  drive  was  necessarily  slow.  There  were  many 
vehicles  before  them,  equally  many  behind  ;  and  they 
had  not  reached  the  town  where  Mrs.  Gray  proposed 
to  diverge,  and  stop  at  a  small  wayside  albergo. 
Here  they  were  to  rest,  change  dresses,  assume  dis- 
guises, and,  under  cover  of  cloaks  and  mantles,  re- 
turn to  the  city  in  time  for  the  ball. 

The  maids,  with  all  necessary  toilet  appointments, 
had  been  sent  early  in  the  day  to  make  proper 
arrangements.  Mrs.  Gray  was  going  as  Juliet,  her 
cavalier  as  Romeo.  May  was  to  be  a  nun,  and  Mr. 
Morton  a  friar. 

Had  there  been  nothing  equivocal  in  this  freak,  no 
spice  of  mischief,  May  would  not  have  cared  to  take 
part  in  it ;  but  she  retained  still  a  childish  love  of 
daring  to  do  what  her  elders  condemned.  Already 
there  was  in  her  mind  a  curious  reversion  of  feeling 
towards  her  companions,  and  wonder  at  herself  that 
she  should  find  pleasure  in  their  society.  How  could 
any  one  think  them  witty,  wise,  or  intelligent }  Mrs. 
Gray's  voice  was  shrill  and  discordant  as  a  peacock's. 
Mr.  Morton  languished  like  a  lackadaisical  frog. 
Even  the  day  seemed  to  have  grown  hot  and  dusty. 

"  Why  so  triste  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Morton,  attempting 
to  be  sympathetic. 

.  May  disdained  answering  with  any  thing  but  a 
pout. 

Just  then  a  man  on  horseback  pressed  towards 


ASPIRATIONS.  171 

them.  It  was  hard  work  to  get  through  the  crowd, 
but  he  made  out  to  do  so ;  and  May  saw,  with  a  little 
quiver  of  annoyance,  that  it  was  Branly  Potter. 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Gray  ordered  her  coachman 
to  turn  out  into  the  cross-road. 

By  this,  May  supposed  they  would  avoid  meeting 
Mr.  Potter,  whose  salute  she  had  purposely  shunned. 

What  concern  of  his  was  it  that  they  were  not 
going  directly  to  Florence }  And  yet  here  he  was 
nearly  side  by  side,  turning  into  the  cross-road  too. 
A  spy !  purposely  watching  her,  sent  by  Grace  and 
Ruth,  or  possibly  by  Mr.  Barclay.  She  remembered 
now  that  Mr.  Barclay  had  said  some  trifling  thing 
which  made  her  suppose  Ruth  had  told  him  her  in- 
tention ;  and  she  knew  Mr.  Barclay  disliked  and  dis- 
approved of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  had  avoided  her  all  day. 
But  what  cared  she  for  Mr.  Barclay's  likes  or  dis- 
likes }  He  was  always  a  man  of  whims  and  caprices. 
Had  he  chosen  to  take  up  Mrs.  Gray,  he  would  have 
found  a  score  of  apologies  for  her  frivolities.  She 
was  not  to  be  snubbed  or  scorned  by  Mr.  Barclay, 
with  all  his  old-fashioned  prejudices.  And  she  would 
have  "a  good  time  "  for  once;  for,  of  course,  she 
must  sooner  or  later  renounce  Mrs.  Gray,  and  yield 
herself  again  a  slave  to  duty  and  propriety  and  aunt 
Althea. 

Perhaps  there  was  less  regret  in  the  alternative 
than  she  tried  now  to  believe,  though  she  strove  to 
persuade  herself  that  she  was  a  victim.  A  pretty, 
piquante,  pouting  victim  she  was  indeed,  lifting  her 
drooping  lashes  up  to  give  Ned  Morton  a  disdainful 
glance,  and  set  him  wondering  in  his  lethargic  way 


1/2  ASPIRATIONS. 

what  he  had  done  to  displease  her  and  how  he  best 
could  propitiate  the  capricious  damsel.  Flowers,  bon- 
bons, —  these  were  the  only  things  he  knew  of  which 
would  bring  smiles,  and  these  were  not  to  be  had 
at  the  moment.  A  vague  idea  came  that  conversa- 
tion might  be  made,  if  he  only  knew  what  to  talk 
about ;  but  for  the  life  of  him  nothing  would  come, 
except,  "  I  say,  what  stunning  buttons  these  servants 
have  on  their  liveries  ! "  and  "  I  wonder  now  how  far 
we've  gone," — to  both  of  which  brilliant  comments 
there  was  no  response ;  and  just  as  he  had  concluded 
that  he  would  ask  what  number  gloves  she  wore, 
and  get  up  a  bet  on  the  winning  horse  at  the  next 
race,  the  victoria  stopped  and  Branly  Potter  rode 
up. 

May  was  herself  again  in  an  instant,  —  not  a  trace 
of  her  recent  sulkiness.  She  pretended  great  sur- 
prise at  seeing  Mr.  Potter,  tossed  her  bouquet  and 
fan  to  Mr.  Morton,  was  out  of  the  carriage  and  chat- 
ting with  Mrs.  Gray  and  her  cavalier  before  Mr.  Mor- 
ton had  recovered  from  his  surprise.  They  all  went 
into  the  small,  sanded  room  which  was  the  only  par- 
lor of  the  osteria,  but  Branly  Potter  came  boldly  up 
to  May  and  said,  — 

"I  am  sorry  to  summon  you  from  so  pleasant  a 
party,  Miss  Alden,  but  I  am  under  bonds  not  to  ap- 
pear without  you.  If  I  could  have  captured  you  before 
you  started,  I  would  have  done  so ;  but  the  crowd  hin- 
dered me." 

**  But  I  do  not  intend  to  be  captured,  if  you  please, 
Mr.  Potter,  —  thanking  you  all  the  same  for  your  con- 
sideration," haughtily  responded  May. 


ASPIRATIONS.  173 

"No,  I  suppose  you  would  hardly  allow  the  term  ; 
but,  all  the  same,  you  must  come  home  with  me." 

"  MustJ'  repeated  May  with  even  more  hauteur : 
"  I  am  not  used  to  that  expression  either ;  but  I  sup- 
pose Ruth  Morris  and  Grace  have  made  a  tool  of  you, 
Mr.  Potter,  and  in  a  manner  forced  you  to  take  up 
the  role  of  dictator.  Drop  it,  please,  at  once,  and  be 
your  own  natural  self.  I  haven't  the  smallest  inten- 
tion of  going  home  with  you." 

Branly  Potter  had  a  temper  of  his  own  as  quick  as 
May's,  and  he  happened  just  now  to  be  in  no  patient 
mood ;  for,  in  addition  to  her  sauciness,  Ned  Morton 
was  grinning  with  satisfaction  at  the  encounter. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  rough.  Miss  Alden,  com- 
pared with  your" — he  was  going  to  say  "present 
companions,"  but  he  checked  himself — "compared 
with  "  —  He  stumbled  into  something  stupid  about 
"  hating  to  carry  messages,  etc.,"  and  then  declared 
it  was  stupidly  warm  and  tiresome,  and  his  horse 
needed  looking  after,  but  that  he  would  be  with  her 
again  in  a  moment ;  and  May  turned  with  a  grimace 
to  Ned  Morton.  But  in  a  moment  more  Mrs.  Gray 
came  up  and  said,  "  What  is  all  this  about  your  sister, 
May  .?  Mr.  Potter  says  she  is  ill." 

**  Grace  !  "  exclaimed  May. 

"  Yes.  He  tells  me  he  has  come  for  you  ;  he  has 
gone  to  have  his  horse  looked  after,  and  wants  me  to 
send  you  back." 

"  I  told  him  I  would  not  go  :  it  is  all  a  subterfuge." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  afraid  it  is  true.  He  asked  me  to 
tell  you,  said  he  was  always  awkward  and  was  afraid 
of  frightening  you,  but  that  Miss  Marchbank  and  he 


174  ASPIRATIONS. 

had  to  go  home  with  your  sister  hours  ago.  It  is  too 
bad,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  I  should  say  it  was,"  put  in  the  interesting  and 
original  Ned  Morton.  "  It's  a  confounded  nuisance, 
that's  what  it  is,  and  that  prig  has  invented  the  whole 
thing." 

"Oh,  no!"  laughed  Mrs.  Gray.  "He  wouldn't 
have  taken  that  trouble,  would  he.  May  1 " 

**  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  May  gloomily. 

"  But  I  am  sure  of  it,"  persisted  the  gallant  Morton. 
"He  just  wants  to  have  you  all  to  himself  on  the  drive 
home." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  judge  him  by  yourself,  Ned,"  said 
Mrs.  Gray,  still  smiling  sarcastically,  and  noticing 
that  May  had  grown  a  little  pale.  "  I  don't  imagine 
your  sister  would  be  the  better  for  your  return,  May. 
You  may  as  well  have  your  fun  out.  An  hour  or  two 
later  will  make  no  sort  of  difference.  I  dare  say  it's 
only  a  headache." 

But  May's  fears,  as  well  as  her  conscience,  troubled 
her.  Mrs.  Gray's  advice  was  cold  and  heartless. 
Already  she  had  turned  to  see  about  dinner,  and  dis- 
cuss the  coming  excitement ;  while  her  maid  was  tak- 
ing up  her  shawls  and  looking  after  her  fineries. 

"  Is  Grace  positively  ill } "  demanded  May  of 
Branly  Potter  when  he  returned. 

"  Positively  ;  but  I  don't  want  you  to  be  alarmed. 
She  has  had  a  letter  or  something,  — at  least  Miss 
Marchbank  thought  so  from  some  words  she  dropped 
just  as  she  was  coming  to,  you  know." 

"  Coming  to  .?  " 

"  Yes :  she  had  fainted  once  or  twice." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 7  5 

"  Good  heavens  !  Mr.  Potter,  why  did  you  not  tell 
me  at  once  ?     Come,  don't  wait  a  moment." 

"Going,  absolutely ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gray.  "What 
a  sentimental  child  !  —  lose  all  this  evening's  pleasure 
because  your  sister  has  the  blues  or  a  fit  of  ill  tem- 
per.?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going,"  responded  May,  now  quite 
serious.  "  I  am  sorry  to  disarrange  your  plans,  but 
you  will  please  pardon  me  ;  and  if  you  would  be  so 
kind  as  to  come  too  "  —  She  hesitated  as  she  saw 
Mrs.  Gray's  consternation. 

"I !  I !  Indeed  not.  You  surely  cannot  know  what 
you  ask.  Fifine  may  go  with  you  for  propriety's  sake, 
but  you  have  Mr.  Potter's  escort  :  that  is  enough." 

May  knew  very  well  it  was  not  enough,  that  all 
her  coterie  in  Florence  would  be  shocked  to  see  her 
driving  in  the  evening  with  Mr.  Potter ;  that  it  was 
not  conventional,  and  that  Mrs.  Gray  knew  it  was  not. 
But  how  could  she  expect  any  thing  else  from  Mrs. 
Gray,  and  had  she  not  over  and  over  again  defended 
just  this  sort  of  independence }  Oh,  it  was  all  very 
nice  when  her  own  feelings  were  not  concerned,  but 
now  Mrs.  Gray  appeared  to  be  utterly  selfish  and  in- 
different ;  and  poor,  poor  Grace,  what  could  be  the 
matter } 

Her  thoughts  were  in  much  of  a  jumble ;  but  pres- 
ently she  found  herself  in  the  victoria  again,  and  alone 
with  Fifine.  Where  was  Branly  Potter  }  Absolutely 
he  had  ridden  off  and  left  her ! 

It  was  dark  when  she  reached  the  hotel,  and  Fifine 
was  complaining  in  bad,  but  dramatic,  French  that 
madame  was  cruel  to  send  them  thus,  that  no  money 


I  *j6  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

should  tempt  her  to  return,  and  that  if  mademoiselle 
would  accept  her  services  she  would  leave  her  erratic 
mistress  on  the  moment.  To  all  of  which  May  made 
no  reply.  She  was  thinking,  wishing,  hoping,  and 
praying,  all  at  once,  that  nothing  of  real  danger  had 
happened  to  Grace. 

When  she  entered,  she  was  met  by  Ruth,  who  only 
whispered,  — 

"  She  is  quiet  now,  but  her  fever  is  high.  Miss 
Alden  is  with  her.  Miss  Marchbank  would  not  have 
left  her,  but  she  has  to  start  for  Genoa  to-night ;  I 
am  going  to  see  her  off,  and  will  then  return  to  you. 
Mr.  Barclay  will  stay  here,  to  be  of  assistance  if 
necessary." 

"But,  Ruth,  what  is  it }    No  one  has  told  me." 

"  It  is  a  nervous  shock.  We  don't  know  the 
cause." 

"Branly  Potter  says  there  was  a  letter." 

"  Did  he  }     I  don't  think  Miss  Alden  knows." 

"  Miss  Marchbank  said  so." 

"  I  will  ask  her,  if  you  wish.  The  doctor  allows  no 
conversation.  He  says  she  must  have  perfect  quiet, 
that  there  is  just  a  possible  danger  of  brain-fever." 

"  Ruth ! "  was  all  May  could  utter,  and  fell  back 
in  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  it  is  very  sad,  and  we  all  so  soon 
to  part.  But  Mr.  Barclay  will  stay ;  and  he  is  so  very, 
very  kind,  and  always  knows  just  what  to  do." 

Mr.  Barclay  came  in  at  this  moment,  and  hurried 
Ruth  off ;  for  Miss  Marchbank  had  delayed  her  de- 
parture to  oblige  them,  and  now  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  speed  her  on  her  going. 


ASPIRATIONS.  177 

Tea  was  brought,  and  drank  in  silence  ;  Miss 
Alden  coming  in  at  the  last  mcfment,  and  giving 
May  the  merest  shadow  of  a  smile,  drinking  her  tea 
and  gliding  off  again  without  a  word. 

May  never  knew  how  that  evening  went.  She  re- 
membered it  as  a  dull  blank,  with  now  and  then  a 
picture  of  the  garden  party  flashing  and  fading  into 
a  ghostly  pantomime  of  masked  figures.  She  knew 
that  Ruth  returned,  and  that  Mr.  Barclay  said  some- 
thing kind  to  her,  and  that  after  awhile  she  fell 
asleep ;  and  then  the  morning  came,  and  Miss  Alden 
kissed  her  and  said  the  danger  was  over,  that  Grace 
was  sleeping  beautifully,  and  if  there  should  be  no 
return  of  fever  she  should  see  her  sister.  Ruth, 
too,  was  sympathetic,  and  told  her  that  Miss  March- 
bank  had  seen  Grace  crumple  up  a  letter  which  was 
under  her  pillow,  and  that  fearing  it  might  be  lost,  or 
fall  into  wrong  hands,  she  had  dropped  it  in  an 
empty  vase  standing  near  the  bedside. 

Bathing  her  swollen  eyes,  and  rousing  herself  from 
her  stupor,  May  rose  from  the  chair  where  she  had 
been  all  night,  and  followed  Ruth  to  Grace's  room. 
Ruth,  too,  had  been  up  all  night,  alternating  with 
Miss  Alden  in  the  watching. 

Was  it  possible  that  a  few  hours'  suffering  could 
work  such  a  change }  May  looked  at  Grace  with 
wonder.  White  as  an  Easter  lily,  with  great  circles 
of  shadow  about  her  closed  eyes,  lay  the  sleeping 
girl.  She  was  quiet  now,  but  Ruth  said  her  breath- 
ing had  been  like  the  convulsive  sobbing  of  a  fright- 
ened child. 


1^8  ASPIRATIONS, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Ruth  had  gone  from  the  room,  Miss  Alden  was 
asleep  on  the  lounge ;  and  May  still  sat  looking  at 
her  sister,  when  she  remembered  what  Ruth  had  told 
her  about  a  letter.  Surely  there  could  be  no  harm 
in  her  finding  out  just  what  had  occasioned  all  this 
trouble.  Her  sisterly  love  overbore  her  sense  of 
honor,  and  she  carefully  plucked  from  the  vase  the 
crumpled  envelope  with  its  American  post-mark. 
Silently  as  she  did  it,  the  movement  was  seen  ;  for 
at  that  moment  Grace  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked 
steadily  at  her.  May  in  her  agitation  dropped  the 
letter,  and  knelt  beside  her  sister,  regardless  of  all 
the  caution  she  had  received,  crying,  — 

**  Grace,  darling,  forgive  me !  But  I  must  know 
what  is  the  matter." 

"  Read  it,"  said  Grace  languidly.  "  You  may  as 
well  know.  But  don't  criticise.  Just  let  me  get 
over  it  as  best  I  can.  And  you  had  better  tell  aunt 
and  Ruth.  The  worst  is  passed  now.  I  shall  be 
well  again  in  a  few  days.  Only  I  beg  you  will  all  try 
to  forget  and  forgive,  as  I  shall  do." 

May  picked  up  the  letter  and  read,  — 

"  My  dear  Grace,  —  Your  last  letter  reached  me  on  the 
1st;  and  its  kind  assurances  of  regard  made  me  feel  very 
grateful  for  your  friendship,  but  very  regretful  that  Fate  had 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 79 

ever  allowed  me  to  be  so  presumptuous  as  to  suppose  that  I 
could  make  you  happy.  The  more  I  consider  the  difficulties 
that  have  surrounded  me,  the  more  convinced  I  am  that  we 
have  both  been  unwise  and  hazardous  in  entering  into  an  en- 
gagement which  could  only  be  productive  of  disappointment 
and  vexation.  True,  I  did  at  one  time  see  this  in  a  different 
light.  I  hoped  for  advancement,  I  trusted  to  rise ;  and  in  this 
hope  and  trust  I  made  the  offer  of  myself  to  you :  for  I  knew 
well  what  a  noble,  generous  spirit  is  yours,  and  I  should  have 
been  a  happy  man  indeed  had  I  been  able  to  secure  you  for  my 
life-partner.  But  since  then  great  changes  have  occurred.  It 
is  needless  to  enter  into  business  details.  You  know  I  have 
worked  like  a  slave,  and  with  little  or  no  remuneration  beyond 
the  meeting  of  my  daily  wants.  You  know,  also,  that  I  have 
others  depending  upon  me.  You  cannot  know  or  understand 
the  complications  of  unfortunate  investments,  so  I  will  not 
dwell  on  them :  enough  is  it  to  say,  that,  harassed  by  toil  and 
unceasing  exertions,  I  have  concluded  that  I  will  no  longer  in- 
dulge the  hope  of  winning  you.  I  am  the  further  induced  to  do 
this  by  the  offer  of  a  situation  in  a  large  South-American  house, 
which  will  require  a  residence  in  Porto  Rico.  It  will  be  need- 
less for  you  to  remonstrate,  as  you  may  be  tempted  to  do,  be- 
cause I  have  not  given  you  the  alternative  of  choice.  I  knew 
you  too  well  to  do  so.  I  knew  you  were  capable  of  any  sacri- 
fice ;  and  I  knew  also,  that,  in  view  of  your  devoted  attachment, 
I  should  be  weak  if  I  allowed  myself  to  vacillate.  I  therefore 
write  only  to  request  that  you  will  look  at  the  whole  transaction 
as  I  have  done,  as  simply  something  forced  upon  us  by  circum- 
stance, as  a  business  matter,  in  fact,  rather  than  one  of  senti- 
ment. Be  assured  that  I  shall  always  esteem  you  as  a  most 
noble,  generous,  high-minded  friend,  a  woman  worthy  of  the 
best  that  the  world  can  bestow,  and  one  whom  I  shall  always 
respect." 

May  had  flung  the  letter  down  when  she  reached 
these  words,  with  an  angry  and  contemptuous  cry; 
but  Grace  bade  her  pick  it  up  again,  and  read  a  clip- 


l8o  ASPIRATIONS, 

ping  from  "  -^wspaper,  which  was  attached.  It  was 
from  a  local  newspaper  of  the  town  in  which  Mr. 
Bainbridge's  family  resided,  and  read  thus  :  — 

"  We  hear  with  pleasure  of  the  appointment  of  our  promising 
young  townsman,  Robert  Bainbridge,  to  the  consulship  of  Porto 
Rico.  This,  in  connection  with  his  approaching  marriage  to  the 
wealthy  widow  of  one  of  the  firm  whom  he  represents  in  that 
distant  city,  is  a  matter  deserving  of  our  heartiest  congratula- 
tions." 

"  The  base  traitor !  the  cowardly  knave  !  "  broke 
from  May's  wrathful  lips,  as  she  again  glanced  over 
the  neatly  written  document,  —  in  which  there  was 
not  an  i  without  a  dot,  not  a  t  uncrossed,  not  a  word 
misspelled,  or  a  comma  left  out. 

"  Hush,  dear  !  "  said  Grace. 

"Indeed,  I  will  not  hush,"  said  May.  "It's  the 
coldest,  crudest,  most  mercenary  thing  I  ever  read,  — 
not  one  word  of  regret,  of  remorse,  or  of  pity.  He 
is  a  mongrel,  without  the  first  faint  tinge  of  gentle- 
manly blood  in  his  veins.  If  I  were  a  man,  I  would 
shoot  him,  only  he'd  not  be  worthy  of  an  honorable 
bullet." 

"  May  !  May  !  "  implored  Grace. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  Grace.  I  must  give  vent  to  my 
feelings.  I  have  not  half  expressed  my  scorn  and 
indignation.  How  did  you  ever  love  him  }  How 
could  he  ever  have  persuaded  you  to  believe  in  him  t 
How  were  you  so  blind } "  But  seeing  her  sister's 
pallor  and  agitation  checked  her,  and  she  exclaimed. 
"  But  pray  forgive  me,  Grace.  You  are  suffering, 
and  I  am  only  adding  to  your  pain.     I  will  go  away 


AS  PI R  A  TIONS.  1 8 1 

and  storm  by  myself,  if  only  yon  will  promise  to  get 
well,  and  let  no  one  know  you  careT 

Fortunately,  at  that  moment,  Ruth  came  back,  and 
May  had  to  see  some  people  who  had  called.  Among 
them  was  Mr.  Potter,  who  was  not  especially  grati- 
fied to  find  that  his  excuses  for  leaving  her  the  pre- 
vious evening  were  received  with  an  apparent  forget- 
fulness  that  there  had  been  any  need  of  excuse. 
Indeed,  she  seemed  to  be  oblivious  to  every  thing 
that  had  transpired,  and  was  not  even  aroused  to  any 
interest  in  an  account  of  the  masked  ball,  and  Mrs. 
Godfrey  Gray's  performance  thereat,  notwithstanding 
the  sensation  it  had  made,  and  the  gossip  which  was 
already  afloat. 

"  You  are  tired,  I  suppose,"  he  ventured  to  say, 
when  he  found  that  she  was  not  listening  to  a  word, 
and  was  listlessly  pulling  her  yesterday's  bouquet  to 
bits. 

"  Yes,  I  am  tired,"  she  repeated,  "  tired  to  death 
of  every  thing  and  everybody.  Oh,  don't  be  shocked 
at  my  rudeness  !  —  for  I  can  be  very  rude,  as  you  saw 
yesterday,  — but  Grace's  illness  has  upset  me.  I  am 
sick  of  all  the  nonsense  and  flummery  of  society.  I 
want  to  go  home,  and  forget  that  I  have  ever  been 
abroad,  learn  to  do  something  useful,  and  settle 
down." 

*'Just  what  I  propose  doing.  Let  us  do  it  to- 
gether." 

"What!"  said  May,  flashing  her  startled  gaze 
upon  him.  "  Why  should  you  ?  You  have  a  thou- 
sand opportunities,  where  I  have  but  one.  A  man 
seems  an  enviable  being  to  me  :  he  has  the  choice 


1 82    .  ASPIRATIONS. 

of  every  thing,  can  mould  his  own  destiny ;  while  we 
have  to  smile  and  simper  till  we  secure  a  favorable 
partly  or  eat  our  hearts  out  with  useless  ambition, 
and  crush  out  every  spark  of  individuality,  to  suit 
the  caprice  of  fashion  and  society." 

Her  companion  smiled,  and  looked  at  her  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  been  transformed,  but  was  not  altogether 
displeased  at  this  exhibition  of  novel  points. 

"And  what  of  the  favorable /^r//.*  if  that  succeeds, 
does  all  go  well .'' " 

*'  Oh,  charmingly  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  ! "  this 
with  a  fine  scorn  of  manner. 

His  brow  darkened,  as  he  said,  — 

"  Ah,  you  fashionable  girls  may  sneer  as  you 
like !  It  is  the  caprice  of  an  idle  moment.  None 
of  you  would  marry  simply  for  affection.  You  all 
demand  the  entourage  of  fortune,  in  some  shape  or 
other." 

"  Do  we,  indeed }  and  how  about  you  of  the 
stronger  sex  t  I  suppose  none  of  the  gifts  that  daz- 
zle have  any  charms  for  you.  You  are  sublimely 
above  such  weakness." 

"We  are  getting  absurd,  Miss  May.  *  You're 
another,'  never  convinces." 

"  No,  certainly  not.  Let  us  have  a  truce.  Mor- 
alizing is  not  my  style.  Are  you  really  going  home, 
Mr.  Potter .? " 

**  Really,  yes  ;  and  to  work." 

"  What  sort .?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  be  a  literary  man  or  an  artist." 

"Why  not?" 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 83 

"  Oh,  I  hardly  know  !  only  there  are  so  many,  and 
it  is  so  often  an  excuse  for  elegant  idleness." 

"  Does  it  matter  to  you  what  I  am  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  does." 

"  You  are  delightfully  honest.  Why  do  you  under- 
take, then,  to  advise  me  }  " 

"  From  motives  of  general  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  the  world." 

"  How  flattering  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  doesn't  do  to  be  too  selfish.  One  must 
be  wide  in  one's  sympathies." 

"Just  now,  I  wish  you  were  narrower." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  saw  honest  and  genuine 
feeling  in  his  face,  and  a  positive  fright  seized  her. 
Had  he  been  Ned  Morton,  she  would  have  been 
tempted,  by  her  anger  and  grief  at  Grace's  misfortune, 
to  lead  him  on,  and  amuse  herself  at  his  expense  by 
way  of  vicarious  reprisal,  —  a  girlish  and  absurd  re- 
venge, but  none  the  less  satisfactory  ;  but  Branly  Potter 
inspired  respect.  He  was  not  specially  deferential, 
and  he  was  often  awkward,  but  he  was  manly,  —  and 
that  goes  farther  than  any  thing  else  with  some  girls. 
But  her  faith  in  men  had  received  a  blow.  Who 
could  have  suspected  that  Grace's  lover  would  have 
proved  so  false  }  Had  he  not  been  all  that  one  would 
suppose  correct  and  proper  and  faithful,  even  if  lack- 
ing in  some  attributes  which  win  general  admira- 
tion .?  She  had  called  him  ** brother"  Bainbridge  be- 
cause of  his  faultless  appearance  and  rather  religious 
aspect.  If  so  grave  and  earnest  a  person  could  pur- 
sue such  a  crooked  path,  why  might  not  others  do 
the  same?     With  quick  perception  of  what  might 


1 84  ASPIRATIONS, 

follow,  if  this  personal  talk  went  on,  she  turned  about 
and  tacked,  as  many  a  little  craft  finds  it  safer  to  do 
when  the  wind  blows  from  a  dangerous  quarter.  And 
Branly  Potter  allowed  her  to  do  as  she  wished.  He 
was  certainly  in  love ;  he  acknowledged  it,  he  knew 
it :  but  he  was  not  so  far  gone  as  to  put  himself 
where  he  could  not  retreat,  for  he  was  by  no  means 
sure  of  this  pretty,  bewitching,  but  possibly  capri- 
cious girl. 

Mr.  Barclay  soon  after  entered,  and  asked  if  they 
had  heard  the  news  about  Mr.  Marsh  the  painter. 
They  had  not,  and  were  glad  of  a  turn  in  the  tide  of 
conversation. 

"  It  is  a  charming  little  romance ;  but  I  shall 
have  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  if  you  are  inclined  to 
listen." 

"  Pray  do,"  exclaimed  May.  "  He  has  always  in- 
terested me  from  the  day  he  saved  us  from  the  waves 
off  the  Neck,  Mr.  Barclay ;  and  he  showed  even  then 
the  stuff  of  a  hero." 

Branly  Potter,  not  knowing  what  this  allusion 
meant,  was  disposed  to  be  contemptuous,  but  suc- 
ceeded only  in  being  jealous ;  he,  however,  listened 
to  Mr.  Barclay  with  patient  politeness. 

"  Heroes  are  somewhat  scarce  now-a-days,  and  I 
don't  know  that  being  the  subject  of  an  accident  of 
fortune  or  fate,  as  people  term  the  chances  and 
changes  of  this  life,  entitles  one  to  the  name  of  hero 
in  any  proper  sense  of  its  meaning ;  but  certainly  it 
is  not  a  little  unusual  for  a  poor  fisher-lad  like  Lillo 
Marsh  to  turn  out  the  heir  of  a  princely  family  and 
fortune,  and  unusual  events  certainly  do  cast  a  glow 


ASPIRATIONS,  185 

of  romance  around  the  most  ordinary  of  mortals.    But 
let  me  begin  my  story  in  my  own  way. 

"  The  Romanos,  as  you  may  be  aware,  are  as  old,  if 
not  older,  than  the  Medicis,  and  as  proud  of  their 
native  city  as  any  of  the  Florentines,  but  in  a  way 
far  different.  It  was  their  province  to  do  the  harder, 
coarser  work  for  their  contemporaries.  Instead  of 
interesting  themselves  in  cinque  cento  architecture 
and  the  revival  of  learning,  they  toiled  simply  to  amass 
the  wealth,  which,  after  all,  was  the  moving  force  of 
the  new  growth.  They  were  known  as  hardy,  brawny, 
rough  men  ;  having  commercial  relations  not  only 
with  their  fellow  Tuscans,  but  with  the  Genoese  and 
Pisans.  They  disdained  no  personal  effort  to  secure 
success,  and  many  of  them  became  masters  of  vessels 
and  traders  with  foreign  ports.  But,  with  the  force 
of  this  strong  animal  nature,  they  were  also  men  of 
violent  passions,  and  were  known  to  be  quarrelsome 
and  headstrong  even  in  their  own  families.  True  as 
this  was  of  the  Romanos  of  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth 
centuries,  it  remained  true  of  them  down  to  the  later 
period,  when,  with  fortunes  wasted  and  estates  rav- 
aged by  Northern  enemies,  they  had  little  left  of  their 
ancient  magnificence.  The  Romanos  of  the  present 
have  dwindled  down  to  a  mere  handful.  Nicolo,  the 
Count  Romano,  head  of  the  family,  and  owner  of  the 
villa  where  our  garden  party  was  held,  is  an  old,  dis- 
appointed, and  sorrow-stricken  man.  He  had  one 
son,  a  wild,  lawless  fellow ;  and  one  daughter,  a  young 
shrinking  creature,  afraid  of  her  very  shadow.  On 
these  two  children  all  his  hopes  and  happiness  de- 
pended ;  and  yet,  so  inconsistent  can  a  man  be,  he 


1 86  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

had  done  nothing  to  insure  either  their  obedience  or 
respect.  He  neglected  their  education,  he  allowed 
every  indulgence,  and  yet,  when  their  wishes  clashed 
with  his,  saw  no  reason  why  they  should  be  unsub- 
missive. The  usual  result  followed.  The  son  ran 
away  from  home  and  became  a  sailor.  Returning  by 
stealth  to  see  his  sister,  he  countenanced  her  in  an 
attachment  for  one  of  his  comrades,  — an  ordinary  sea- 
man like  himself, —  to  whom  she  was  married  secretly, 
which,  on  the  count's  discovery,  led  to  a  dreadful  quar- 
rel that  caused  the  daughter's  death.  She  left  a 
child,  however,  to  whom  the  count  became  deeply 
attached,  and  who  was  cared  for  by  an  old  family  ser- 
vant until  it  was  three  or  four  years  old,  when  the 
father  claimed  it ;  and  the  uncle  stole  it,  or  rather 
had  it  conveyed  to  the  ship  on  which  they  both  were 
employed.  The  count  never  knew  what  became  of 
the  child.  His  son  never  returned,  neither  did  his 
son-in-law,  whom,  by  the  way,  he  had  never  acknowl- 
edged. Grief  and  disease  wore  upon  him  ;  and,  like  a 
vulture  eager  for  its  prey  before  its  victim's  death,  a 
distant  relative  began  a  series  of  law-suits  which  em- 
barrassed the  estates,  though  they  did  not  succeed  in 
depriving  the  count  of  his  patrimony. 

"  You  will  not  now  be  surprised  at  the  finale  of  my 
tale. 

"  At  the  fete  in  the  Romano  Gardens,  M.  Petits- 
pains,  a  solictor  interested  in  Count  Nicolo's  affairs, 
saw  a  remarkable  resemblance  in  a  little  picture 
painted  by  Lillo  Marsh  to  one  in  the  Romano  gal- 
lery, which  led  to  a  comparison,  and  finally  to  the 
greater  discovery  by  the  servants  in  a  resemblance 


ASPIRATIONS,  187 

of  both  pictures  to  Lillo  himself,  and  his  identifica- 
tion as  the  Count  Nicolo's  grandson. 

"The  wife  of  Girolamo,  the  steward,  had  been  the 
nurse  of  Lillo's  mother  and  of  Lillo  himself.  She 
was  overcome  with  surprise  and  remorse,  and  nothing 
could  convince  her  of  the  possibility  of  mistake.  She 
had  connived  at  the  child's  removal  from  his  grand- 
father in  revenge  for  the  mother's  death,  but  had  suf- 
fered deeply  in  consequence ;  for,  never  hearing  any 
thing  more  of  him,  she  had  supposed  that  the  usual 
fate  of  sea-going  people  had  befallen  them  all,  —  the 
father,  the  uncle,  and  the  child.  Undoubtedly  the 
uncle  was  lost  at  sea,  and  the  father  also,  but  not  in 
the  voyage  which  conveyed  the  child  to  its  American 
grandparents." 

"And  how  did  the  Count  Nicolo  accept  this,  and 
what  proof  does  Mr.  Marsh  bring.?"  asked  Branly 
Potter. 

"The  count  was  eager  to  have  the  story  substan- 
tiated," went  on  Mr.  Barclay;  "as  eager  as  Mr. 
Marsh  was  reluctant.  But  M.  Petitspains,  with 
deft,  lawyer-like  penetration,  gained  from  Lillo  so 
much  that  was  conclusive,  that  there  seemed  really  no 
reason  to  doubt." 

"  But  why  was  the  count  so  willing,  and  Mr. 
Marsh  so  unwilling  }  "  asked  May. 

"The  count  is  in  his  dotage.  Past  errors,  past 
failures,  have  weakened  him,  and  made  him  long  for 
a  strong  arm  to  lean  upon,  besides  the  better  inclina- 
tion to  make  reparation,  if  that  be  possible.  With 
Lillo  there  is  the  manly  disinclination  to  appear  an 
adventurer,   or   to   take   undue   advantage   of   what 


1 88  ASPIRATIONS. 

might  possibly  be  only  a  romantic  similarity.  Be- 
sides, he  is  all  American,  self-made,  democratic,  with 
no  wish  to  wear  a  title,  or  make  himself  conspicu- 
ous." 

"And  what  will  he  do.?'* 

"  He  is  going  home  for  papers  which  may  decis- 
ively prove  what  is  now  only  conjectured." 

"  Home  }    To  America  1 " 

"Yes.  The  count  is  impatient  with  the  restless 
eagerness  of  age,  so  he  has  promised  to  go  at  once. 
He  will  take  the  same  steamer,  probably,  that  Ruth 
and  Mrs.  Vedder  cross  in,  so  that  he  may  return  as 
speedily  as  possible." 

"  And  then  > " 

"  I  really  can  tell  you  nothing  more,  but  I  suppose 
in  due  course  of  time  he  will  be  the  Count  Romano." 


ASPIRATIONS,  189 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

When  Mr.  Marsh  found  himself  undergoing  close 
and  repeated  questionings  from  M.  Petitspains,  and 
the  recipient  of  embraces  and  caresses  from  the  aged 
crone  in  the  Romano  picture-gallery,  he  felt  him- 
self an  actor  in  what  might  prove  to  be  more  than 
a  comedy.  But  when  that  same  evening,  he  had 
parted  from  his  friends,  and  had  been  conducted  into 
the  presence  of  Count  Nicolo,  with  only  Mr.  Barclay 
and  M.  Petitspains  as  audience,  it  seemed  to  him 
a  broad  farce.  That  he  —  a  simple-minded  Ameri- 
can citizen,  a  dauber  of  paints,  an  unknown  fisher-lad 

—  should  be  a  supposed  aspirant  to  Italian  nobility, 
was  too  absurd.  He  felt  himself,  as  I  have  said, 
an  actor,  playing  an  unexpected  part  in  a  surprising 
drama ;  and  though  there  was  enough  reality  in  all 
that  had  transpired,  and  enough  connection  with 
that  which  had  been  always  a  dream  to  him,  —  viz., 
his  days  of  infancy,  —  he  now  found  himself  most 
reluctantly  forced  to  accept  the  truth,  and  comply 
with  the  count's  request  to  return  to  the  States  and 
collect  every  vestige  of  paper  which  might  have 
any  power  to  prove  his  identity. 

He  found  the  count  as  Mr.  Barclay  described  him, . 

—  an  old,  sorrowful  man,  living  in  an  out  of  the  way 


1 90  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

part  of  Florence,  unvisited,  forgotten  by  the  gay- 
world,  absorbed  in  the  one  only  thing  which  inter- 
ested him, — simply  the  defence  of  his  property, 
which,  little  comfort  as  it  yielded  him,  was  yet  a  some- 
thing which  aroused  the  only  remains  of  his  old  spirit ; 
a  something  which  he  would  keep,  if  to  retain  it  was 
only  to  withhold  it  from  the  clutches  of  the  ravening 
aggressor  who  assailed  it.  The  new  hope  which  the 
discovery  of  his  possible  and  probable  heir  aroused 
was  as  marrow  to  his  bones  and  warmth  to  his  veins. 
His  whole  being  was  stimulated.  To  have  the  aid 
of  a  young,  fresh,  vigorous  spirit  in  the  warfare  he 
was  waging;  to  make  the  possession  of  his  prop- 
erty an  impossibility  to  his  enemy  in  the  future,  as 
well  as  in  the  present,  —  was  even  more  than  he  could 
have  hoped.  With  tremulous  eagerness,  he  was  con- 
fident of  success ;  and  he  welcomed  Lillo  with  senile 
tenderness  that  would  have  touched  the  young  man's 
heart  could  he  have  forgotten  that  this  same  man's 
anger  and  wretched  failure  of  parental  duty  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  mother's  misfortunes. 

Their  meeting  was  peculiar.  Lillo  did  not  speak 
Italian  with  ease.  Count  Nicolo  knew  no  English ; 
but  M.  Petitspains  was  an  enthusiastic  interpreter. 

By  the  glimmering  light  of  candles,  in  the  gloomy 
apartment,  might  be  seen  the  remarkable  family 
likeness  between  the  grandfather  and  grandson ;  but 
it  seemed  to  be  purely  physical,  for  in  the  young 
man's  steadfast  gaze  there  was  none  of  the  older 
man's  vacillating  weakness.  Mr.  Barclay  noticed 
the  almost  contemptuous  indifference  of  Lillo  when 
M.  Petitspains  enlarged  and  dilated  upon  the  mag- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 9 1 

nificence  of  being  a  Romano,  and  the  questioning 
disappointment  which  crept  into  the  old  man's  coun- 
tenance at  the  negative  part  which  Lillo  took  in  the 
discussion. 

The  candles  flamed  and  flared.  The  lawyer  pre- 
sented every  point  of  the  necessary  legalities,  and 
with  rapid  pen  wrote  out  remarks,  directions,  expla- 
nations ;  his  little  wizened  face  shining  with  acute- 
ness.  On  his  left  sat  the  white-haired  count,  wrapped 
in  some  sort  of  a  loose  cloak,  which,  from  its  braids 
and  frogs,  seemed  a  remnant  of  military  service.  In 
his  delicate  white  hand,  with  its  signet  ring,  was  held 
a  metal  snuff-box,  from  which  he  carefully  took  a 
pinch  at  odd  intervals.  His  gaze  was  fastened  with 
intensity  upon  the  young  painter,  who,  after  the  cor- 
dial recognition  vouchsafed  him,  had  drawn  somewhat 
into  the  shadow  of  some  overhanging  drapery,  and 
leaned  carelessly  upon  the  carved  back  of  a  prie- 
dieti. 

Lillo's  fine  features  were  just  a  little  flushed,  and 
his  foot  tapped  the  polished  floor  uneasily.  The  or- 
deal was  not  agreeable  to  him,  and  it  was  with  great 
reluctance  that  he  assented  to  the  propositions  urged. 
He  had  not  intended  an  immediate  return  to  Amer- 
ica, and  it  interfered  with  his  professional  plans  so 
to  do ;  but  when  his  grandfather  clasped  his  hands, 
and  wept,  he  could  not  have  refused,  if  only  from 
motives  of  pity.  But  besides  the  pity,  and  independ- 
ently of  all  other  considerations,  there  was  now  the 
desired  opportunity  of  making  certain  the  proofs  of 
a  legal  marriage  between  his  father  and  mother,  with- 
out which  he  would  never  ask  Ruth  Morris  to  be  his 


192  ASPIRATIONS, 

wife.  To  be  sure,  he  had  in  an  unguarded  moment 
given  her  an  inkling  of  his  admiration,  and  had  been 
made  glad  by  the  sweet  confidence  with  which  that 
inkling  had  been  received  ;  but  he  would  not  have 
felt  himself  justified  in  asking  her  to  accept  a  name 
to  which,  perhaps,  he  had  no  right. 

"  You  will  go  then  and  return  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible } "  urged  monsieur. 

Lillo  nodded. 

"  And  you  will  accept  your  aged  relative's  offer  of 
a  permanent  home  as  his  only  son  and  heir?" 

"  Pardon,  I  cannot  promise  that." 

**  Why  not }  why  not }  Every  advantage  is  to  ac- 
crue, —  the  estates,  the  title,  the  political  honor, 
the"  — 

"  None  of  which  I  care  for,"  interrupted  Lillo. 

The  lawyer  glared  upon  him,  so  great  was  his 
astonishment. 

"  You  forget  that  I  have  a  profession,"  said  Lillo. 

"  But  that  need  not  interfere." 

"  I  have  made  my  own  career ;  I  am  satisfied :  why 
should  I  burden  myself  with  all  these  empty  honors 
and  unwelcome  privileges  ? " 

"Because  you  are  a  Romano,"  said  the  lawyer 
decisively,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  Because  I  am  but  half  a  Romano,  left  to  fight 
my  own  battle  with  the  world,  disowned,  discarded, 
neglected,  forgotten,"  said  Lillo  indignantly. 

"  Pardon  me,  that  is  not  truth :  your  grandfather 
loved  you  ;  you  were  taken  from  him  ;  he  would  have 
nourished  you  as  the  apple  of  his  eye." 

"As  he  did  my  mother,  perhaps,"  said  Lillo  satiri- 
cally. 


ASPIRATIONS,  193 

"Ah,  young  man  ! "  pleaded  the  little  lawyer,  "you 
little  know  the  keenness  of  a  parent's  disappointment 
when  a  child  marries  wilfully,  secretly,  out  of  her 
station.  But  let  that  pass  :  her  wrongs  have  been 
atoned  for  by  years  of  acute  remorse  and  humilia- 
tion. Accept,  I  beg  you,  this  grandparent's  contri- 
tion. Look  at  him ;  see  his  eager  hope :  wouJd  you 
cloud  it } " 

"I  have  no  wish  to  add  to  his  sorrows,"  replied 
Lillo,  forced  to  answer. 

"  Then  give  him  the  satisfaction  he  so  desires." 

"  I  promise  nothing,"  said  Lillo  again,  rising  from 
his  leaning  attitude  and  preparing  to  depart,  **  noth- 
ing that  may  harass  my  future  movements.  You 
will  please  make  my  "  (here  he  hesitated)  "  my  grand- 
father—  if  that  is  the  title  the  Count  Nicolo  prefers 
me  to  use  —  understand  how  much  I  thank  him  for 
his  proposal  and  warmth  of  recognition,  and  assure 
him  that  I  shall  either  bring  or  send  him  the  papers 
I  possess.  I  will  do  that,  but  I  will  bind  myself  to 
nothing  more."  He  drew  himself  up  with  some  hau« 
teur,  and  the  old  count  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  pleading  inquiry.  M.  Petitspains  was  much  dis- 
concerted, but  strove  to  maintain  a  smiling  aspect. 

"  I  will  trust  to  your  better  nature,  your  generos- 
ity. You  cannot  be  so  cruel  as  to  disappoint  this 
aged  parent !  This  has  come  upon  you  too  suddenly. 
You  have  really  had  no  time  to  consider ;  and  you 
will  better  appreciate  the  brilliancy  of  position, 
wealth,  family,  an  ancient  name,  when  you  find  how 
the  world  regards  this  opportunity.  Ah,  young  man, 
I  have  no  fear  but  that  all  will  come  around  as  we 


1 94  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

wish  !  Every  thing  happens  to  those  who  wait.  This 
time  next  year,  no  one  in  Italy  will  be  so  much  sought 
after,  no  one  better  known  for  his  fine  prospects,  than 
the  young  Count  Lillo  Romano,  grandson  and  heir 
of  the  Count  Nicolo."  His  beaming  smile  and  as- 
sured tones  revived  hope  in  the  aged  count,  who  rose, 
and,  as  Lillo  departed,  placed  upon  his  reluctant 
hand  the  signet  ring  from  his  own  finger. 

"  I  feel  like  a  thankless  prodigal  son,  who  prefers 
the  husks  and  the  swine  from  sheer  choice,"  said 
Lillo  to  Mr.  Barclay  as  they  separated. 

It  was  indeed  wonderful  how  quickly  the  story  got 
about,  and  how  soon  congratulations  came  pouring 
in.  Between  the  day  of  his  leaving  and  that  of  the 
fete^  a  week  had  hardly  elapsed ;  and  yet  numerous 
cards  were  left,  and  carriages  rolled  away  from  the 
studio,  to  Bianca's  delight,  who  saw  in  this  attention 
a  recognition  of  her  lodger's  importance  which  might 
bring  her  in  an  increase  oifrajtchi. 

How  the  news  spread,  Lillo  did  not  know,  but  he 
shrewdly  suspected  M.  Petitspains  had  a  hand  in  it. 
He  had  little  time  to  speculate,  however,  on  this  or 
any  other  question  :  the  arrangement  of  his  affairs, 
the  finishing  of  pictures  already  ordered,  and  the 
preparation  for  his  journey,  took  up  all  his  time. 


ASPIRATIONS,  195 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

At  the  last  moment  of  the  steamer's  sailing,  in 
which  Mrs.  Vedder  and  Ruth  were  to  leave,  they 
were  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  her  son.  He 
came  aboard  in  haste,  and  showed  no  especial  pleas- 
ure in  so  doing ;  for,  in  truth,  he  had  been  forced  to 
this  by  a  quarrel  with  his  elder  brother  and  a  failure 
of  funds.  But  he  seemed  to  be  more  resisrned  to 
his  fate  when  he  discovered  that  his  mother  had  so 
young  and  pretty  a  companion  in  her  travels,  and 
he  soon  made  it  apparent  that  he  intended  to  assume 
every  cousinly  right.  But  Ruth  was  far  from  respon- 
sive. At  a  first  glance  she  had  conceived  an  aver- 
sion difficult  to  conceal,  and  a  nearer  acquaintance 
froze  her  into  an  icicle  of  reserve,  which  increased 
Mr.  Vedder's  ill-humor. 

Lillo  Marsh  was  also  on  the  same  steamer,  under 
no  new  name  or  title.  But  Ruth  was  conscious  of 
but  one  presence,  and  that  was  Mrs.  Vedder's. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  ocean  malady  has  been 
analyzed  in  these  analyzing  days,  but  I  am  confident 
that  no  aspiring,  elevating  emotions  are  ascribed  to 
it.  Ruth  found  it  absolutely  degrading.  She  felt 
herself  indulging  all  sorts  of  regrets.  She  wished 
she  had  never  seen  her  aunt,  never  heard  of  her 
cousins,  never  left  Mr.  Barclay. 


1 96  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

In  the  pauses  of  intense  misery  her  ears  were 
filled  with  Mrs.  Vedder's  complaints  of  the  way  the 
world  treated  her,  particularly  the  little  world  of  ex- 
clusive people  journeying  to  their  republican  homes 
with  a  fresh  stock  of  aristocratic  ideas.  "Snub- 
bing," as  Mrs.  Vedder  expressed  it,  was  dealt  out  in 
large  measure.  She  could  not  understand  why  she 
was  the  object  of  so  much  indifference.  What  had 
she  done  or  left  undone  t 

The  poor  woman  had  not  a  particle  of  tact,  and 
intruded  herself  on  people  without  knowing  how 
repugnant  she  was  to  them.  Neither  could  she  com- 
prehend why  her  beloved  Charley  was  not  regarded 
with  admiring  eyes.  Was  he  not  outwardly  all  that 
a  gentleman  need  be  ? 

And  why  did  not  Ruth  like  him }  What  other 
girl  but  would  be  pleased  with  his  attention  }  To  be 
sure,  he  was  a  little  frisky,  and  sometimes  made  mis- 
takes. 

Ruth  listened  to  her  aunt's  complaints  as  she 
listened  to  the  throb  of  the  engine,  and  the  rush  of 
the  waves, —  with  the  apathy  of  despair. 

Should  she  ever  behold  her  native  land,  she  would 
never  again  trust  herself  off  of  terra  firnia. 

One  day  she  seemed  stronger,  and  the  stewardess 
urged  her  to  leave  her  berth.  Muffled  in  wraps,  and 
attended  by  Mrs.  Vedder,  she  did  so.  It  was  the 
first  sight  of  her  which  had  gladdened  Lillo's  eyes 
since  their  departure.  He  noticed  keenly  her  pallor, 
her  listlessness,  and  the  fatigue  of  Mrs.  Vedder's 
presence.  With  delicacy  he  sought  to  divert  her ; 
but  she  scarcely  brightened,  her  depression  re-acting 


ASPIRATIONS.  197 

upon  himself.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  have 
been  mistaken  in  those  vague  but  happy  imaginings 
in  which  he  had  indulged.  Even  the  day  was  an 
uncertain  one,  —  the  sky  full  of  gray  clouds,  the  sun 
glancing  out  only  at  intervals.  No  one  spoke  to 
them.  Mrs.  Vedder's  voice  intimidated  those  who 
might  have  approached  the  interesting  languid  young 
invalid ;  and  Mr.  Vedder's  cigar-smoke  made  an  im- 
pregnable halo  about  them.  It  was  impossible  that 
the  conversation  should  be  any  thing  better  than  the 
merest  commonplace ;  and  yet  it  was  with  a  quick 
perception  of  jealous  regard  that  Lillo  saw  Charley 
Vedder  assume  the  proprietary  right  to  be  Ruth's 
guardian  and  escort,  and  strive  to  make  his  trifling 
words  carry  an  accent  of  meaning  wholly  lost  on 
Ruth. 

Poor  Ruth  was  sadly  homesick,  and  the  mere  men- 
tion of  Mr.  Barclay  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

Uneasy  and  discomposed,  Lillo  wondered  if,  after 
all,  the  absurd  reports  —  absurd  until  now  —  con- 
cerning Mr.  Barclay  and  his  young  ward  had  any 
foundation. 

Was  it  altogether  impossible  that  their  strong  affec- 
tion for  each  other  had  taken  a  different  coloring } 
Why  should  he  have  supposed  as  entirely  a  matter  of 
course  that  the  love  of  which  he  was  so  conscious 
should  be  returned }  Had  not  many  a  young  girl 
given  similar  recognition  of  an  unconcealed  passion, 
and  then  acted  in  the  most  deliberate  and  contradic- 
tory manner.  Even  granting  that  she  was  free  from 
the  guile  of  coquetry,  might  she  not  have  been  mis- 
taken in  her  own  feelings  ? 


1 98  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

Every  lover  can  thus  torment  himself.  It  is  but  a 
phase  of  the  tender  passion,  that  such  doubts  should 
ebb  and  flow.  And  it  was  not  an  unreasonable  sup- 
position for  an  imaginative  person  to  hold,  that  Mr. 
Barclay  should  have  reared  and  educated  a  charming 
young  girl  with  the  intention  of  making  her  his  wife, 
—  a  wife  of  his  own  modelling.  He  knew  that  this 
view  was  held  by  many.  But  why,  then,  should  Mr. 
Barclay  have  allowed  Ruth  to  leave  him  even  for  a 
few  months  1  Perhaps  the  separation  was  to  be  a 
test.  Perhaps  he  was  generous  enough  to  wish  her 
to  see  the  world  for  herself,  unbiassed  by  his  presence 
or  advice;  and  perhaps,  too,  she  was  only  just  now 
appreciating  how  very  much  she  cared  for  him. 
Lillo's  thoughts  ran  in  this  current  all  that  day.  So 
long  as  Ruth  staid  on  deck,  he  remained  beside  her, 
loath  to  give  her  into  Charley  Vedder's  keeping ;  for, 
in  addition  to  the  cigar-smoke,  Mr.  Vedder  had  made 
frequent  visits  to  the  steamer's  bar.  But  Ruth's 
mood  was  one  of  such  utter  indifference,  that,  had 
there  been  an  opportunity  for  serious  conversation, 
Lillo  would  not  have  seized  it ;  for  moods  can  be  as 
unconquerable  as  barriers  of  stone.  The  day  grew 
darker,  the  wind  higher,  and  Mr.  Vedder  found  stimu 
lants  even  more  necessary  than  before.  Indeed,  so 
unsteady  had  his  nerves  become,  that  Lillo  was  obliged 
to  persuade  him  to  seek  the  retirement  of  his  berth  ; 
but  he  was  not  a  youth  accustomed  to  yield  to  per- 
suasion which  conflicted  with  his  own  views.  No, 
he  would  not  go,  and  he  would  persist  in  maudlin 
attentions  to  Ruth,  who  at  last  roused  to  the  true 
condition  of  her  cousin  rose  hastily  for  the  purpose 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  1 99 

of  going  to  the  cabin.  How  she  rose,  and  how  both 
young  men  advanced  with  her,  and  the  one  in  eager 
haste  to  baffle  the  other  sprang  before  in  such  a  way 
as  to  confuse  the  heated  brain  of  his  companion,  can 
hardly  be  told :  enough  that  one  of  them  plunged 
down  the  narrow  companion-way,  striking  his  head 
in  his  fall,  and  lying  senseless. 

There  was  instant  stir  and  commotion.  The  sur- 
geon was  summoned,  and  a  crowd  of  excited,  ques- 
tioning people  gathered  around. 

Lillo  hurried  Ruth  to  her  state-room,  and  returned 
to  his  unfortunate  acquaintance.  The  surgeon  was 
applying  remedies,  and  there  did  not  seem  to  be  much 
harm  done.  But  Mrs.  Vedder  was  frantic  in  her  accu- 
sations. In  vain  the  cooler  heads  tried  to  calm 
her.  "  Hush !  hush  !"  they  said.  But  she  began  to 
weep,  and  amid  her  sobs  asserted  that  the  young 
painter  had  been  the  cause  of  the  fall.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  notice  her,  but  Lillo  essayed  to  stem  the 
reproachful  torrent  of  her  speech.  She  would  not 
listen  to  him.  Nothing  and  no  one  could  convince 
her  that  she  was  mistaken  ;  not  even  Ruth  could 
change  her :  so  after  that  Lillo  kept  away  from  her  as 
she  desired.  This  affair  did  not  increase  the  Vedders' 
popularity.  Mr.  Vedder  remained  in  seclusion  the 
rest  of  the  voyage,  and  Mrs.  Vedder  maintained  her 
anger.  Ruth  forbore  any  further  defence  of  Lillo, 
and  the  journey  came  soon  to  an  end,  —  heavy  fogs 
making  it  still  more  dreary.  Her  great-uncle,  Mr. 
Boggs,  met  them  on  landing,  and  was  profuse  in  his 
welcome.  His  studs  were  larger  than  ever,  and  his 
voice  even  more  resonant. 


200  ASPIRATIONS. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Morris,  glad  to  see  you  with 
your  aunt.  She's  the  proper  person  for  you  to  be 
with.  Never  did  like  the  idea  of  your  livin'  on  a  man 
who  was  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  you.  Hope  you  ain't 
too  fine  a  lady  through  his  foolish  notions.  Goin*  to 
be  somethin*  and  do  somethin'  now,  ain't  you } " 

Ruth  opened  her  large  eyes  and  looked  at  him  as 
she  might  have  done  when  she  was  the  little  friend- 
less girl  of  years  before.  Her  present  desolation 
nearly  equalled  that  of  those  long-forgotten  days. 

"Now,  Cauldwell,"  interposed  Mrs.  Vedder,  "don't 
be  too  aggravatin*  just  as  I've  reached  my  native  land. 
The  stars  and  stripes  make  me  feel  good-natured, 
and  I  don't  want  to  be  riled.  Get  my  things  through 
the  custom-house,  and  let  Charley  and  Ruth  come  on 
with  me.  Charley's  not  well,  and  Ruth's  had  an 
awful  sea-sick  time.  We'll  go  to  the  Fifth  Avenue 
and  get  a  good  dinner,  and  take  the  evening  train 
straight  to  Berryville.  See  here,"  and  her  voice 
dropped  to  a  whisper,  "  there's  a  lot  of  lace  sewed 
inside  the  trimming  of  one  of  my  wrappers ;  take  care 
that  they  don't  find  it  out.  And  I've  got  lots  of  gloves 
and  things  that  haven't  been  worn,  that  they'll  want 
to  charge  duty  on  ;  but  it's  none  of  the  Government's 
business :  I  am  not  a  smuggler,  and  they've  no  right 
to  suspect  me.  The  custom-house  is  a  mean,  mis- 
erable concern,  anyway." 

While  Mr.  Vedder  harangued  her  brother,  and  the 
luggage  was  being  inspected,  Lillo  drew  near  to  bid 
Ruth  good-by.  He  had  necessarily  kept  aloof, — for 
Mrs.  Vedder's  unreasoning  aversion  and  his  own  self- 
respect  obliged  him  to,  —  but  he  was  none  the  less 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  20 1 

determined  to  know  Ruth's  whereabouts  and  plans, 
even  if,  as  he  feared,  there  might  be  little  chance  of 
his  ever  having  any  share  in  them. 

She  was  standing  in  all  the  confusion  of  the  wharf, 
looking  absently  toward  the  bay  and  the  far-away  ves- 
sels. Her  color  rose  as  Lillo  approached  and  offered 
his  arm. 

"Let  us  get  a  little  out  of  the  crowd,"  he  said, 
drawing  her  away  from  the  bustling  and  pushing 
people.  "  Our  rather  unsatisfactory  journey  has  pre- 
vented me  from  asking  you  where  you  are  going,  and 
how  long  you  will  remain  with  your  aunt :  may  I  not 
know  ? " 

"  Certainly,  as  far  as  I  can  know  myself.  But  truly 
I  am  much  confused.  Mr.  Boggs  has  just  now  sug- 
gested that  I  must  *  be  something  and  do  something : ' 
what  would  you  advise  ?  " 

Lillo  looked  amused  as  he  said,  "  Is  it  worth  while 
considering  what  such  a  man  thinks  }  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  don't  think  he  is  alone  in  his 
views  :  everybody  is  expected  to  be  something  or  do 
something  extraordinary  now-a-days.  I  am  afraid  my 
guardian  has  hardly  prepared  me  to  meet  the  expec- 
tations of  society." 

"  Society  is  a  tremendous  humbug.  But  how  long 
are  you  to  remain  with  these  people  }  '* 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  said  Ruth  ruefully.  "  If  I 
had  known  that  Mr.  Vedder  was  to  return  with  his 
mother  "  —     She  stopped  short. 

"  Does  he  annoy  you  in  a  way  that  I  can  help  }  " 
asked  her  companion,  blazing  up. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried,  fearful  of  these  two  com- 


202  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

ing  in  conflict  again ;  "  and  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
the  rudeness  you  have  suffered  from  them/' 

"That's  a  trifling  matter;  but  may  I  not  hear 
from  you?  I  am  on  my  way  to  Codtown,  as  you 
know,  and  expect  to  return  by  next  week's  steamer." 

"  So  soon  ?  " 

**  Yes ;  there  will  be  nothing  to  detain  me,  and  my 
newly  found  relative  will  be  impatient.  Mr.  Barclay 
will  want  to  hear  all  about  you.  May  I  not  visit 
Berryville,  if  that  is  where  you  are  going,  so  that  I 
can  report.^" 

"  Of  course,"  replied  Ruth,  unconscious  of  the  little 
bitterness  with  which  her  companion  spoke,  for  she 
was  thinking  how  desolate  she  would  be.  So  long  as 
he  had  been  near,  she  had  been  sure  of  some  one 
who  understood  her  and  sympathized  with  her.  She 
looked  up  at  him  now  with  a  glance,  which,  had  he 
been  in  a  more  hopeful  state  of  mind,  would  have 
carried  enlightenment.  He  mistook  its  tenderness  for 
regret  at  her  separation  from  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  And  the  Aldens,  too,  —  you  will  have  some  mes- 
sage for  them  ?  "  he  went  on,  wishing  to  prolong  the 
conversation,  yet  jealous  and  unsatisfied  with  its 
turn. 

'*  Yes.  I  must  write  at  once  to  May.  Poor  Grace 
will  not  care  much.  You  know  that  her  engagement 
is  broken  } " 

"  I  heard  so.     Does  she  care  t " 

The  little  mocking  tone  did  not  escape  Ruth. 

"  She  is  wretched." 

"  Is  it  possible  }  I  supposed  good  little  girls  obeyed 
their  parents  and  guardians,  and  had  no  feeling  in 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  203 

these  matters.  Miss  Alden,  I  presume,  believing  the 
young  man  too  poor,  forbade  his  addresses." 

*'You  are  mistaken,"  said  Ruth  gravely. 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Boggs  and  Mrs.  Vedder,  hav- 
ing superintended  the  opening  of  numerous  boxes, 
drew  near,  and  at  the  same  moment  Charley  Vedder 
appeared  with  a  hack  ;  and  Lillo  released  Ruth's  hand 
from  his  arm.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  certain  ques- 
tioning intentness,  which  made  the  color  again  flush 
her  pale  cheeks,  and  tint  even  her  pretty  little  ears, 
in  which  there  were  no  rings. 

**  You  will  come  see  me,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  I 
want  to  hear  all  that  romantic  story  of  yours,  your 
own  version  of  it,  and  whether  you  are  going  to  be 
Count  Romano ;  and  besides,  I  shall  feel  quite  a 
stranger  in  my  native  land." 

"  You  will  miss  Mr.  Barclay,"  said  Lillo ;  add- 
ing, "If  you  wish  me  to  come,  I  will  certainly  do 
so." 

Then  Mrs.  Vedder,  who  had  stood  by  rather  awk- 
wardly, with  a  very  nonchalant  nod,  put  out  her  hand, 
and  said,  — 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Marsh,  I  was  mistaken  on  the 
steamer.  I  was  all  riled  up  and  disturbed  by  that  acci- 
dent. Charley  says  I  was  a  fool  to  act  so.  You  must 
come  and  see  us  in  Berryville ;  we  are  all  goin'  there 
soon.  Ain't  this  custom-house  business  a  bother  ? 
But  you  ain't  got  the  traps  we  have.  Now,  just  look 
at  Ruth  :  she's  as  pretty  as  a  picture  to-day.  That's 
all  because  she's  on  dryland.  The  ocean  don't  agree 
with  her,  nor  with  me  either.  Isn't  the  weather  hot 
here  in  New  York  t     I'm  all  wrapped  up  in  my  seal- 


204  ASPIRATIONS. 

skin,  so  they  shouldn't  charge  duty  on  it.  Well,  good- 
by.     Don't  forget  to  come  and  see  us." 

Ruth  got  into  the  carriage  with  a  dull,  desolate 
feeling  that  she  had  made  some  great  mistake.  Every 
thing  had  suffered  a  sea-change.  She  had  been  so 
happy  in  the  last  few  months,  had  so  thoroughly 
enjoyed  her  youth,  her  liberty,  her  friends, — and, 
above  all,  the  new  and  exquisite  sensations  which  had 
come  like  the  first  sweet  breath  of  summer,  the  mere 
shadow  of  a  hope  as  evanescent  as  the  perfume  of 
wild-flowers,  a  something  intangible  and  yet  joyful, 
a  something  which  she  could  not  translate,  for  which 
speech  had  no  words.     And  now  where  was  it  t 

Not  long  was  she  allowed  to  indulge  in  revery.  An 
earnest  discussion  had  arisen  as  to  what  should  be 
ordered  for  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Vedder  had  loudly  in- 
veighed against  the  cookery  of  the  Cunard  steamers. 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  "  she  said.  "  We  must  have  a  real 
good  spread.  It  is  late  for  shad,  I  suppose,  June  shad 
ain't  good  for  much.  Ruth's  looking  as  thin  as  one 
now !  I  suppose  strawberries  are  plenty.  Oh,  how 
hungry  I  am,  and  how  glad  to  get  away  from  all  those 
foreign  fixin's !  Cauldwell,  I  advise  you  never  to  go 
abroad." 

"  I  never  mean  to :  America  is  good  enough  for 
me,"  said  Mr.  Boggs,  clearing  his  throat  as  if  for  a 
speech,  and  addressing  his  sister  as  from  a  rostrum, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  on  which  glittered  a  huge 
carbuncle. 

"I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "you  saw  much  of  the 
deplorable  effects  of  dram-drinking  in  those  towns 
and  villages  where  grapes  are  raised." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  205 

Ruth  thought  with  a  shuddder  of  his  nephew's 
habits,  and  feared  lest  a  personal  reproof  might  be 
coming;  but  Mr.  Boggs's  words  were  but  the  preface 
to  a  long  address  on  the  follies  of  the  day.  He 
liked  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  did  not  expect  replies. 
But  Mrs.  Vedder  also  liked  to  talk,  and  had  no  inten- 
tion of  letting  him  have  all  his  own  way.  Was  she 
not  fresh  from  scenes  that  his  eyes  had  never  beheld, 
and  had  she  not  met  people  of  much  more  impor- 
tance than  Mr.  Boggs  had  any  conception  of  } 

But  the  bad  pavement  over  which  they  were  pass- 
ing made  Mr.  Boggs's  elocution  jerky,  and  the  rusty 
springs  of  the  hack  deprived  his  expressions  of  grace ; 
besides,  the  blocked  and  tangled  mass  of  vehicles, 
with  swearing  drivers,  made  it  necessary  for  both  of 
them  to  shout :  so  after  a  while  conversation  was 
abandoned,  and  they  drove  on  in  silence,  leaving 
Ruth  to  her  desolate  meditations. 

**  Here  we  are  at  last ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vedder, 
as  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  gleaming  white 
front  of  the  Fifth-avenue  Hotel.  "Now  for  a  good 
dinner !  '* 


206  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"A  NOTE  from  Miss  Alden,  sir;  the  man  waits  for 
a  reply,"  said  Mr.  Barclay's  servant,  presenting  the 
billet  on  a  silver  salver. 

Mr.  Barclay  was  at  his  writing-table  this  warm 
morning,  with  a  heap  of  correspondence  before  him. 
He  tore  open  Miss  Alden's  note  and  read  :  "Can  you 
come  to  me  for  an  hour's  talk  this  afternoon  }  I  need 
your  advice." 

"  Certainly.  I  will  be  with  you  at  four  p.m.  We 
can  drive  afterwards,  if  you  wish,"  was  his  reply. 

He  had  staid  in  Florence  solely  on  Miss  Alden's 
account,  as  her  niece's  illness  had  prevented  her  from 
leaving  when  all  their  American  and  English  friends 
had  departed ;  but  he  was  finding  it  very  irksome. 
The  Protestant  schools  were  closed ;  the  Duchess 
of  Stickingham  was  on  her  way  home  ;  Mrs.  Coit 
had  gone  to  Switzerland;  and  Mr.  Barclay,  without 
Ruth  or  Miss  Marchbank,  found  the  days  too  long 
for  him.  He  missed  his  young  ward  sadly ;  and,  as 
the  possibility  of  losing  her  altogether  was  thereby 
suggested  to  him,  there  came  unbidden  the  query, 
whether,  in  spite  of  all  reasons  against  such  a 
step  which  he  had  always  argued  so  plausibly,  he 
should  not  secure  himself  against  such  a  loss.     Yes, 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  207 

in  his  loneliness  and  ill-health  and  depression,  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  look  at  their  relation  from  the 
vulgar  point  of  view  which  he  had  so  condemned, 
and  really  was  thinking  seriously  if  he  had  not  bet- 
ter make  Ruth  his  wife.  To  be  sure,  he  did  not 
deceive  himself  with  any  absurd  idea  of  being  in  love 
again.  A  man  never  really  could  be  that  but  once 
in  his  life,  and  his  past  was  an  unusually  sacred  one, 
too  sacred  to  be  even  thought  of  in  connection  with 
this  present  plan,  which,  after  all,  was  perhaps  more 
for  Ruth's  benefit  than  his  own.  But,  though  he  had 
no  such  love  to  offer,  he  was  sure  that  no  one's  society 
was  so  necessary  to  him  as  that  of  Ruth's.  Had  he 
not  trained  and  trimmed  and  guided  her  young  life 
entirely  to  his  liking.-^  Had  he  not  instilled  his  own 
views,  principles,  and  opinions,  even  to  such  an  ex- 
treme that  he  had  actually  seen  the  need  of  her  view- 
ing the  world  for  a  while  through  her  own  eyes,  as  an 
educational  advantage  ?  And  who  could  be  more 
sweetly  devoted  to  his  comfort  than  Ruth  t  Ah,  how 
much  he  missed  her  pretty  ways,  her  attention,  her 
docility  !  How  much  he  missed  their  talks  and 
walks  and  readings }  How  silent  and  empty  the 
rooms  were,  how  vacant  his  time !  And  who  could 
understand  her  so  well,  who  could  make  her  so 
happy,  who  knew  her  every  wish  and  thought  } 
Surely  no  one  but  himself. 

And  yet,  there  was  the  possibility  that  even  now 
she  might  be  making  new  ties,  new  friendships,  which, 
if  they  did  not  sever,  might  weaken  old  ties.  For 
Ruth  was  young,  and  Mr.  Barclay  remembered  with 
a  sudden  uneasiness  that  novelty  and  change  some- 


208  ASPIRATIONS, 

times  worked  wonders  with  young  people.  Of  one 
thing  he  was  certain  :  she  had  no  thought  unknown 
to  him,  she  had  no  friendships  made  under  his  eye 
that  he  need  fear  Even  her  personal  attributes 
were  presented  to  him  with  strange  force  and  per- 
sistence as  he  sat  thinking  these  thoughts,  with  his 
pen  in  his  hand,  and  his  note-paper  before  him.  Her 
sweet  face  rose  before  him  like  a  vision ;  and  he 
almost  heard  her  soft  footfall,  and  smelt  the  faint 
fragrance  of  her  fineries.  As  he  dawdled  over  his 
letters,  he  imagined  her  by  his  side,  questioning, 
criticising,  examining,  as  had  been  her  wont,  and  as 
he  had  allowed.  She  was  a  very  lovely  girl,  a  rare 
refinement  in  her  by  nature,  and  the  daughter  of  a 
man  he  had  loved.  Why  should  he  not  follow 
this  impulse  ?  Would  there,  could  there  be  but  one 
answer  if  he  did }  Ah,  again  came  that  vague  un- 
easiness as  to  what  change  might  have  already  been 
begun  in  her ! 

Drawing  a  fresh  sheet  from  a  quire,  and  dipping 
his  pen  leisurely  in  the  ink,  he  began  writing. 

"  My  DEAR  Ruth,  —  It  is  with  a  strange  feeling  of  surprise 
that  I  find  myself  compelled  to  consider  why  I  allowed  you  to 
leave  me." 

No,  that  was  not  what  he  wanted  to  say :  so  he 
began  over  again. 

**  My  dear  Ruth,  —  Since  your  departure,  I  find  myself  a 
strange  and  lonely  being.  All  Florence  is  changed.  Ever}-- 
body  except  the  Aldens  has  gone.  Grace  is  yet  very  weak, 
and  her  aunt  very  uneasy  about  her ;  while  May  is  as  fresh  as  a 
rose,  and  vexed  with  impatience  to  be  off.     I  cannot  leave  my 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  209 

old  friend  to  the  untender  mercies  of  innkeepers  and  servants, 
therefore  I  linger.  But  a  constant  undercurrent  of  wonder  at 
myself  for  letting  you  leave  me  is  ebbing  and  flowing  through 
all  these  lonely  days.  I  did  not  appreciate  my  dependence  upon 
you,  and,  in  truth,  have  come  to  look  at  our  relative  positions  in 
a  very  remarkable  way.  I  believe  I  am  growing  old,  Ruth,  — 
not  so  much  outwardly  as  inwardly,  —  which  is  a  very  curious 
admission  for  me  to  make  just  now  to  you,  meditating,  as  I  do, 
the  asking  of  the  greatest  favor  a  man  can  ask  or  a  woman  can 
grant.  But  you  and  I  have  always  been  very  honest  to  each 
other,  and  to  tell  you  any  flattering  falsehood  would  be  as  for- 
eign to  my  nature  as  to  yours.  Old  I  am,  and  clinging  more  to 
the  idea  of  home  and  established  ways  :  it  is  this  which  has 
been  bringing  me  around  to  the  conviction  that  I  must  cease  to 
be  your  guardian.  I  have  positively  fought  against  this  idea, 
mainly  because  it  was  the  common  one  of  the  stupid  people 
who  think  all  friendships  between  man  and  woman  must  culmi- 
nate in  matrimony,  but  also  because  it  seemed  ungenerous  to 
offer  you  so  little  and  ask  so  much.  But  here  I  am  asking  it, 
after  all,  —  and  why  ?  Because  I  see  no  other  way  of  keeping 
you  all  to  myself." 


The  little  silver  travelling-clock  here  rang  out 
three  clear  notes  ;  and  Mr.  Barclay,  remembering  a 
necessary  errand  before  going  to  Miss  Alden,  as  well 
as  the  need  of  dressing,  was  forced  to  lay  aside  his 
pen  for  a  more  convenient  season.  There  was  no 
haste  required,  and  he  wanted  to  put  his  ideas  very 
deliberately  on  paper.  So  he  rose  and  began  his 
toilet.  It  was  past  four  when  he  reached  Miss 
Aldeu's,  and  found  her  waiting  for  him. 

"  The  girls  are  out,  most  opportunely,"  she  said,  as 
she  greeted  him. 

"  What !  not  Grace  ?  I  thought  she  was  yet  too 
ill." 


2 1 0  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"For  any  lengthened  exertion  yet,  she  is.  But 
May  has  urged  her  into  making  an  attempt.  They 
took  the  maid,  and  Branly  Potter  was  to  drive  them. 
But  I  must  go  home,  Frank.  These  girls  have  kept 
me  now  in  a  perpetual  worry  for  so  long  that  I  have 
reached  the  limit  of  my  patience.  Never,  never 
again  shall  I  be  induced  to  chaperone  marriageable 
girls :  it  is  too  great  a  responsibility.  My  brother 
has  relied  too  much  upon  me.  May's  freaks  of  in- 
dependence, her  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Gray,  and  her 
wilful  opposition  to  my  views  have  been  most  har- 
assing ;  while  Grace's  engagement  terminated,  as  I 
knew  it  would,  in  disaster, — not  that  I  supposed  the 
man  would  do  quite  what  he  did,  but  I  knew  no  good 
could  come  of  the  affair." 

"  Is  she  getting  over  it  ?  '* 

"Yes,  I  think  she  is.  Our  difference  of  opinion 
previous  to  the  iclaircisseincnt  has  prevented  me 
from  being  in  her  confidence ;  but  I  see  that  her 
natural  pride  is  asserting  itself.  She  never  mentions 
the  man's  name." 

"  Naturally,"  said  Mr.  Barclay. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  trust  such  folly  will  never  be  repeated. 
But  I  sent  for  you,  Frank,  to  have  a  business  talk, 
and  I  must  not  allow  myself  to  digress.  Here  is  a 
letter  from  my  brother  that  has  troubled  me  greatly, 
and  I  can't  quite  make  it  out.  He  has  lost  heavily 
in  recent  speculations,  but  I  fail  to  see  why  it  should 
affect  me.  Suppose  you  read  it  and  explain  :  a  third 
person  can  always  do  better  than  an  interested 
party." 

Miss   Alden    handed   Mr.  Barclay  the  letter,  and 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  211 

took  up  her  crochet.  Her  needle  flew  in  and  out  of 
the  fleecy  wool,  and  the  diamonds  on  her  slender  fin- 
gers flashed  with  each  movement.  Her  soft,  rich 
black  silk  and  creamy  lace  became  her  well ;  but  her 
face  looked  worn  and  thin,  and  her  eyes  were  some- 
what dim,  as  if  they  had  recently  shed  tears. 

Mr.  Barclay  read  in  silence,  but  rose  hastily  as  he 
ended,  and  stood  before  the  window. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  this  strange  docu- 
ment, Frank,  which  to  me  was  so  perplexing } " 
asked  Miss  Alden  anxiously. 

Mr.  Barclay  came  back  from  the  window  with 
heightened  color. 

"  It  does  not  contain  good  news,'*  he  said  quietly. 
But  something  in  his  tone  made  Miss  Alden's  work 
slip  from  her  fingers ;  seeing  which,  he  took  her  hand 
very  gently  and  drew  it  to  his  lips. 

"  What  is  it,  Frank }  what  is  it  that  you  have  dis- 
covered ? "  she  asked ;  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"  Be  courageous,  my  dear  friend ;  there  are  many 
things  worse  than  the  loss  of  money  in  this  world." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  not  to  those  who  have 
no  power  of  making  it.  Nothing  but  crime  and  sin 
can  be  worse." 

"  The  loss  of  those  we  love,"  he  began  gently,  re- 
membering the  blight  upon  his  own  life ;  but  she 
quickly  broke  in  — 

** Those  losses  Heaven  consoles;  sorrow  carries 
its  own  balm;  but  money —  Oh,  it  is  simply  what 
we  cannot  do  without !  But  how  does  my  poor 
brother  stand  }     Is  he  penniless  ? " 

"I  fear  he  is," 


2 1 2  ASPIRA  TIONS, 

"  And  I  ?  how  will  it  affect  me  ?  '* 

"  I  am  afraid  "  — 

"  Oh,  there  you  must  be  mistaken,  Frank !  My 
brother  may  be  involved,  but  it  cannot  do  me  much 
harm.  To  be  sure,  I  must  help  him  as  far  as  I  can  ; 
but —     Why  do  you  look  so  at  me  ? " 

**  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  know  ? " 

"  No ;  I  see  no  cause  "  — 

"  For  hope  that  any  thing  remains."  He  com- 
pleted her  sentence,  as  a  surgeon  might,  with  incisive 
firmness,  plunge  in  his  scalpel. 

"  Frank ! " 

*'  My  dear  friend,  do  not  deceive  yourself.  Your 
brother  has  used  your  funds  as  well  as  his  own." 

She  rose  now  in  her  excitement,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
with  a  strange  light ;  but  in  a  moment  more  she  had 
dropped  into  her  chair,  and  was  sobbing  violently. 

Mr.  Barclay  went  for  water,  and  found  a  carafe  on 
the  sideboard,  and  a  glass,  into  which  he  poured  a 
few  drops  from  the  little  flask  his  own  invalidism 
necessitated  carrying ;  but  already  Miss  Alden  had 
conquered  her  hysteria,  and  was  fanning  herself. 

"  Forgive  my  outburst,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said 
feebly.  "  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
was  the  truth ;  but  I  see  now  it  must  be  as  you  say. 
What  shall  I  do.?  what  shall  I  do.?  Alas!  here 
come  the  girls.  Let  us  keep  them  ignorant  a  little 
longer." 

"  By  all  means,"  quickly  responded  Mr.  Barclay, 
admiring  her  quick  repossession  of  herself,  and  her 
equally  brave  desire  to  bear  her  trouble  alone.  "  But 
remember  I   am  every  way  at  your  service."     He 


ASPIRATIONS,  213 

had  not  time  to  say  more ;  for,  like  a  summer  breeze, 
May  burst  laughing  in,  and  Grace  followed,  leaning 
on  Branly  Potter,  and  looking  still  like  an  Easter 
lily. 

"  We  have  bought  all  the  shops  out,  auntie,*'  cried 
May,  "for  I  knew  this  was  my  last  chance  when  I 
saw  how  well  Grace  bore  the  fatigue  ;  there  is  no 
earthly  excuse  now  why  she  should  remain  in  Flor- 
ence. I  tried  to  inveigle  Mr.  Potter  to  wager  that 
we  would  return  when  he  does ;  but  he  had  no  faith 
in  my  betting-book,  —  nor  in  me,  either,  I  am  afraid.'* 
But  catching  a  very  expressive  glance  from  her  now 
confessed  lover,  she  stopped  and  looked  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"Something  is  the  matter,"  she  said  decidedly, 
and  with  a  little  sniff  of  her  pretty  nose,  as  if  she 
smelt  something  in  the  air. 

"  Matter  enough,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  gallantly  has- 
tening to  assist  Grace  to  a  chair  and  a  footstool  and 
a  fan,  and  any  thing  and  every  thing  which  would 
cover  Miss  Alden's  emotion.  "  You  are  too  giddy. 
May,  for  a  good  nurse ;  I  shall  have  to  take  Grace 
under  my  wing.'* 

"With  all  my  heart,'*  answered  May,  waving  her 
hands  in  a  fresh  pair  of  palest  primrose  gants  de 
Suede.  "  As  soon  as  you  please,  I  will  resign  ;  only 
I  hope  she  will  not  be  the  torment  of  your  existence 
as  she  is  of  mine,  with  her  proud  determination  to 
give  up  every  wish  and  whim  of  her  own,  and  become 
a  perfect  saint.  Saints  always  were  my  abhorrence, 
and  Grace  is  fast  becoming  one :  so  take  her,  Mr. 
Barclay,  and  welcome.'* 


2 1 4  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

Poor  Grace  smiled  faintly,  and  looked  appealingly 
to  Mr.  Barclay,  saying,  — 

"It's  all  because  I  wouldn't  be  extravagant  and 
buy  a  pair  of  amber  bracelets  for  these  wretchedly 
thin  wrists  of  mine,  and  would  make  her  take  the 
money  for  some  tortoise-shell  things  which  she  wants 
to  give  away.  An  easy  way  to  procure  saintliness, 
is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  motive  is  quite  equal  to  many  that  have 
gained  niches  in  the  chapels !  We  don't  measure 
the  deed,"  answered  Mr.  Barclay,  wondering  why  the 
talk  would  run  on  money,  and  pitying  Miss  Alden 
deeply.  He  was  touched,  too,  with  the  new,  sweet 
expression  of  Grace's  face.  She  looked  wan  and 
weary,  and  no  longer  had  the  bright  girlishness  of 
May ;  but  there  was  a  look  of  calm  serenity  which 
indicated  that  she  had  conquered  in  the  trial  to  which 
she  had  been  subjected,  and  would  hereafter  be  equal 
to  the  duties  her  life  might  impose,  with  perhaps  an 
added  power  of  sympathy  with  the  wants  and  woes 
of  humanity,  which  her  own  pain  had  taught  her. 

Mr.  Barclay  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  looking 
lovelier ;  and  it  pained  him  to  think  what  was  before 
these  girls  who  had  not  known  even  the  restrictions 
of  small  means.  All  their  lives  they  had  lived  in 
luxury ;  not  in  wanton  wastefulness  or  in  pompous 
show,  but  in  the  delightful  ease  of  gratified  desires, 
as  pure  and  healthful  and  refined  as  education  and 
culture  inspire.  To  what  now  might  they  be  hurry- 
ing.?—  to  privation,  toil,  care,  want.  It  made  him 
chilly  as  he  sat  there  with  Miss  Alden's  hopeless,  sad 
glance  meeting  his  in  dumb  anguish.     She  had  taken 


ASPIRATIONS.  215 

up  her  crochet ;  but  the  needle  seemed  to  catch  in 
the  wool,  her  fingers  were  so  tremulous  :  and  in  the 
pauses  of  May's  lively  rattle  he  caught  the  sound  of 
one  or  two  sighs  which  were  almost  sobs.  Poor 
woman,  what  a  crushing  grief  this  was  to  her  !  For, 
besides  the  loss  of  money,  both  he  and  she  knew  that 
there  was  loss  of  honor.  He  would  not  go  till  he 
could  assure  her  of  his  sympathy  and  aid,  and  beg 
her  to  keep  the  worst  of  the  tidings  from  these  inno- 
cent girls.  There  was  no  need  of  their  knowing  all. 
It  was  late  before  Branly  Potter  ceased  making  les 
beaux yeiix  to  May,  and  she  to  him,  — for  if  ever  two 
people  were  to  outsiders  confessedly  "  in  love,"  and 
yet  unwilling  to  acknowledge  it,  these  were ;  and 
for  May,  Mr.  Barclay  had  little  apprehensiveness. 
Her  very  happiness  was  a  shield ;  not  even  poverty 
could  sting  her  with  its  usual  venom.  But  for  the 
aunt,  whose  pride  was  intense,  and  whose  locks  were 
even  grayer  than  his  own ;  and  for  the  girl  whose 
recent  acute  experience  of  sorrow  rendered  her  as  a 
bruised  reed,  —  Mr.  Barclay  was  full  of  pity.  So  he 
staid  on.  But  he  gained  no  chance  to  express  him- 
self that  evening;  for  after  awhile  Miss  Alden,  unable 
to  bear  the  strain  of  suppressed  feeling,  excused  her- 
self, and  as  she  left  the  room  seemed  to  have  become 
shrunk  and  bent  under  the  burden  of  her  woe. 


2 1 6  ASPIRA  TIONS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Mr.  Barclay  went  to  his  rooms  with  almost  as 
much  depression  as  Miss  Alden  displayed.  His  sym- 
pathetic nature  was  disturbed,  and  he  was  deeply 
concerned  about  these  friends.  He  saw  nothing  be- 
fore them,  no  way  out  of  their  trouble.  What  could 
they  do .?  and  how  should  he  help  them  }  He  was 
translating  some  hymns  for  the  use  of  the  schools, 
and  he  sat  down  to  his  work  with  the  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  it  was  hardly  difficult  enough  to  absorb 
him,  that  as  a  man  he  might  be  doing  more ;  but  his 
habits  were  too  fixed  now  to  change,  and,  as  far  as 
money  went,  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  do  more. 
But  he  knew  that,  had  he  been  a  business-man,  some- 
thing would  have  suggested  itself  by  which  he  could 
have  aided  these  unfortunate  women.  Miss  Alden 
was  too  proud,  he  knew,  to  easily  accept  favors  which 
she  would  never  be  able  to  repay;  and  yet  she  was 
entirely  unfitted  by  her  age  and  manner  of  life  for 
arduous  exertion  of  any  sort.  He  cast  about  for 
any  method  whereby  she  could  aid  herself,  and  put 
aside  as  utterly  impracticable  every  thing  that  was 
suggested.  The  customary  self-sustaining  work  of 
middle-aged  people  was  the  keeping  of  schools,  board- 
ing-houses, and  accounts,  or  sewing.    All  these  might 


ASPlRATIOiVS.  217 

do  for  women  of  tougher  fibre  ;  but  for  his  friend  they 
seemed  as  absurd  as  engineering  or  any  of  the  pur- 
suits of  men.  Why,  he  did  not  stop  to  define.  And 
as  for  the  girls,  poor  tender  young  things,  how  his 
heart  ached  for  them  !  It  quite  absorbed  him,  and 
the  letter  he  meant  for  Ruth  was  put  aside  as  of  sec- 
ondary importance,  something  that  could  be  attended 
to  when  his  thoughts  were  less  painfully  occupied.  It 
seemed  too  selfish  to  be  considering  his  own  affairs, 
when  these  friends  of  his  were  overtaken  by  dis- 
aster. 

Just  then  Branly  Potter  came  in  ;  and  Mr.  Barclay 
thought  it  best  to  give  him  some  hint  of  the  state 
of  Miss  Alden's  affairs,  wondering  what  effect  it 
would  have.  The  young  fellow  seemed  positively 
elated  by  it,  and  confessed  that  he  had  been  holding 
off  from  any  communication  with  May's  aunt  because 
May  would  not  let  him  speak ;  but  now  she  must 
give  way.  He  would  not  only  speak,  but  he  would 
insist  upon  immediate  marriage ;  as,  no  matter  how 
poor  he  might  be,  they  were  poorer,  and  together 
they  could  bear  the  brunt  of  unkind  fortune. 

Mr.  Barclay  smiled  in  spite  of  himself  at  Branly*s 
eagerness  and  quick  solution  of  his  part  of  the  prob- 
lem, and  then  he  sighed  to  think  how  quickly  poor 
Miss  Alden  would  be  obliged  to  succumb  and  yield 
her  favorite  ideas  of  prudence,  etc.  But  Mr.  Potter 
succeeded  in  cheering  him,  and  imparted  some  of  his 
own  hopeful  spirit ;  and  together  they  walked  over  to 
Miss  Alden's  rooms,  and  found  the  girls  alone,  read- 
ing and  sewing,  their  aunt  not  having  risen. 

"Aunt  is  not  at  all  well,"  said  Grace,  putting  down 


2l8  ASPIRATIONS. 

her  book  as  she  welcomed  the  two  men,  and  May- 
laid  aside  her  sewing. 

"  I  was  afraid  she  would  be  affected  by  the  painful 
news  she  received  yesterday,"  said  Mr.  Barclay,  as 
Branly  Potter  drew  May  into  the  recess  of  a  cur- 
tained window. 

Grace  looked  startled. 

**  Has  she  not  told  you }  Is  it  possible  you  do  not 
know  }  "  he  asked  hurriedly. 

**  No  ;  she  has  told  me  nothing.  She  seems  fever- 
ish and  dull.  I  am  afraid  we  have  staid  here  too 
long ;  our  maid  tells  me  there  is  much  illness  about. 
What  is  it,  Mr.  Barclay,  that  troubles  aunt  t " 

"  Oh,  if  she  has  said  nothing,  it  will  be  as  well  to 
wait !  I  was  rash ;  but  I  supposed,  of  course,  you 
knew." 

*'  Oh,  pray,  Mr.  Barclay,  tell  me  all !  I  can  bear 
any  thing  now,  — any  thing.     Is  any  one  ill } " 

"Ah,  dear  child,  you  do  not  know  what  you  ask!" 
said  Mr.  Barclay,  looking  pitifully  at  this  slender, 
dark-eyed  young  thing,  who  had  so  recently  been 
struck  with  so  cruel  a  blow,  and  who  seemed  to  have 
grown  so  much  older  and  wiser  than  her  years. 

"No  one  is  ill,"  he  continued.  "But  there  is  an 
entanglement  in  your  aunt's  and  your  father's  busi- 
ness affairs  —  a  great  loss  —  much  embarrassment," 
he  stumbled  on,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  saying ; 
when  she  suddenly  interrupted  him,  putting  one  of 
her  pretty  hands  on  his  arm  with  a  quick  gesture, 
saying,  — 

" Is  that  all }  and  do  you  fear  telling  me  that?'' 

"  To  be  sure  :  it's  deplorable,  dreadful." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  2 1 9 

*'Not  at  all,  unless  there  has  been  something 
fraudulent ; "  and  then  she  stopped,  with  a  sudden 
flush  of  color.  The  supposition  took  away  her  breath, 
and  it  was  in  a  whisper  she  said,  "  That  only  can 
make  loss  of  money  the  bitter  thing  you  think  it." 

He  waived  her  questioning  look,  and  said,  — 

"  You  are  brave  indeed,  dear  Grace.  But  remem- 
ber you  know  nothing  of  hardship.  It  is  my  fear  for 
you  that  makes  me  think  so  much  of  the  mere  loss 
of  money.  You  have  been  so  delicately  reared,  and 
know  nothing  of  the  trials  of  adversity." 

"  But  I  know  where  to  look  for  guidance,"  she 
answered  reverently. 

Then  Mr.  Barclay  asked  to  see  her  aunt,  and  she 
went  to  find  out  if  he  could  be  received. 

Meanwhile,  Branly  Potter  had  urged  his  suit  with 
May,  and  made  her  acknowledge  that  it  was  now 
time  for  him  to  speak  to  her  aunt,  whose  acquies- 
cence he  hoped  to  obtain.  But  it  had  taken  many 
words  and  much  persuasion,  for  she  felt  that  it  was 
positively  taking  an  undue  advantage  of  her  aunt  to 
gain  her  consent  while  under  the  depressing  influence 
of  evil  tidings ;  but  the  young  man  was  accustomed 
to  have  his  own  way,  and  as  soon  as  Mr.  Barclay  re- 
appeared he  was  also  allowed  an  interview.  He  found 
Miss  Alden  supported  by  pillows  in  an  easy-chair; 
but  there  was  the  flush  of  fever  on  her  cheeks,  and 
its  glitter  in  her  eyes.  By  great  effort  she  had  risen 
to  receive  her  old  friend ;  and,  notwithstanding  all 
his  kind  assurances,  she  had  not  grown  calm.  When 
Branly,  after  a  few  hurried  expressions  of  sympathy, 
made  known  his  errand,  she  quickly  responded,  — 


220  ASPIRATIONS. 

"You  find  me  hors  de  combat^  Mr.  Potter.  I  ap- 
preciate your  affection  for  my  neice,  but  I  am  no 
longer  capable  of  exercising  calm  judgment  in  the 
matter.  I  have  always  regarded  marriage  as  excel- 
lent and  desirable  if  the  parties  to  it  were  of.  equal 
birth,  education,  and  fortune,  with  a  strong  leaning 
towards  the  surplus  being  in  the  masculine  hands ; 
but  my  point  of  view  was  from  the  comfortable  ranks 
of  those  who  possess  competence.  I  find  myself 
deprived  now  of  the  very  means  of  existence.  My 
nieces  are  equally  destitute.  My  friend  Mr.  Barclay 
is  our  only  dependence.  He  promises  to  take  us 
home  at  his  own  cost,  though  of  course  my  jewels 
will  recompense  him.  If,  knowing  all  this,  you  still 
persist  in  asking  my  permission  to  marry  May,  you 
are  either  a  —  a  fool  —  or  a  very  high-minded 
man." 

"  I  will  take  the  latter,  if  you  please,"  said  Branly, 
laughing,  in  spite  of  the  gravity  of  the  discussion,  and 
pressing  Miss  Alden's  hot  hand.  "  I  love  May  very 
much,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  she  cares  a  little  for 
me,  —  at  all  events,  she  has  promised  to,  —  and  I  don't 
see  that  we  can  do  better  than  join  forces  at  once ; 
for,  if  I  have  the  right  to  protect  her,  I  can  also  assist 
you,  my  dear  Miss  Alden." 

Miss  Alden  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  '*It  does 
increase  one's  faith  in  human  nature  to  see  such  an 
exhibition  of  kindness,  but  common  prudence  de- 
mands that  I  should  ask  you  if  you  can  do  this  with- 
out an  utter  sacrifice  of  all  your  plans  and  projects." 

"My  dear  Miss  Alden,  all  my  plans  and  projects 
centre  in  your  niece." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  22 1 

"Ah,  well,  it  is  a  mystery  to  me !  But  I  suppose 
we  are  not  all  able  to  fathom  mysteries." 

And  then  Mr.  Potter  withdrew,  very  well  satisfied 
with  this  conclusion. 

So  it  came  about,  that,  after  many  conferences  and 
much  discussion,  there  was  a  hasty  departure  from 
Florence  and  a  rapid  journey  to  England ;  and  Mr. 
Barclay  had  to  have  passports  visM,  and  luggage  for- 
warded, and  make  preparation  for  the  quiet  little  cer- 
emony which  they  concluded  to  have  performed  in 
London.  It  was  rather  rapid  work ;  and,  in  addition, 
Miss  Alden's  condition  was  alarming.  She  rallied 
from  the  first  prostration;  but  at  times  her  brain 
appeared  to  be  affected,  and  fits  of  silence  were  fol- 
lowed by  intervals  of  spasmodic  talking,  which  were 
more  painful  to  hear  than  the  silence  was  to  endure : 
for  the  theme  was  invariably  of  bold  projects  and 
plans  which  her  listeners  could  not  but  think  the  fan- 
tasies of  mental  disorder. 

Grace's  devotion  to  her  aunt  was  noticeable.  She 
was  far  from  strong,  but  all  her  energy  of  character 
manifested  itself.  To  be  sure,  she  had  the  quiet  and 
patient  sympathy  of  all,  but  Mr.  Barclay  remarked 
that  Miss  Alden  turned  to  Grace  for  more  complete 
understanding.  Was  it  any  wonder  that  he  found 
himself  admiring  her  gentle  womanliness  and  self- 
sacrifice,  and  that  even  her  countenance  had  an  in- 
crease of  beauty  for  him  } 

*'  You  have  certainly  the  gift  of  sympathy,  Grace," 
he  said  to  her  one  day,  after  she  had  been  more  than 
usually  taxed  to  divert  her  aunt. 

"  Do  you  think  so  .?  "  she  said,  smiling  in  that  half- 


222  ASPIRATIONS, 

sad  way  which  had  unconsciously  become  a  habit. 
"  Is  it  any  thing  uncommon  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  rare,  and  is  seldom  a  birthright :  one 
has  to  gain  it  through  suffering.  But  all  sufferers 
do  not  possess  it :  they  rather  hug  their  own  pains  to 
themselves,  and  forget  all  about  other  people." 

"  That  seems  to  me  a  poor  and  trivial  relief.  What 
is  the  adage  about  a  trouble  shared  V 

"  You  have  proved  its  truth.  But,  Grace,  you  are 
too  young  for  so  much  wisdom." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  We  must  find  some  way  for  you  to  forget.  The 
time  has  not  arrived  for  you  to  need  so  much  philoso- 
phy. You  must  not  mistake  a  little  breeze  for  a 
great  blow.** 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  as  she  said,  "  What  I 
want  is  work,  Mr.  Barclay.  When  we  get  home,  will 
you  help  me  find  it }  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  said  gravely,  wondering  what  she 
could  do. 

**  Next  to  religion  and  philosophy  comes  work,  as 
a  panacea  for  our  many  ills." 

"  What  can  you  possibly  know  about  it }  " 

"  Oh,  one  can  know  intuitively  a  great  deal  with- 
out absolute  experience !  I  have  done  a  great  deal 
of  thinking  lately." 

"  More  than  has  been  good  for  you,  I  fear.  But 
may  I  ask  what  sort  of  work  you  desire  t  " 

**  It  puzzles  me  a  little.  I  am  not  a  skilful  needle- 
woman, and  I  am  afraid  I  don't  know  enough  about 
mathematics  to  teach  in  schools  ;  but  I  think  I  might 
get  writing  or  copying  to  do." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  223 

Mr.  Barclay  here  remembered  his  own  work  of  late, 
and  the  bright  thought  struck  him  that  it  would  be 
well  to  transfer  it  to  her  hands. 

"Are  you  fond  of  translating  } "  he  asked. 

*'  I  can  read  French  and  German  with  some  ease," 
she  replied  modestly. 

"  And  Italian  ? " 

"  Not  so  well." 

"  I  want  some  help  in  a  hymnal  I  am  preparing,  — 
in  fact,  if  you  can  render  some  of  the  verses  into 
prose,  together  we  might  make  them  jingle,  —  and 
perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  begin  with  such 
work  before  undertaking  any  thing  which  would 
bring  you  in  contact  with  strangers,  who  would  neces- 
sarily be  more  exacting." 

A  bright  look  of  gratitude  made  Grace's  eyes  glis- 
ten. 

"This  is  extremely  kind.  I  will  begin  as  soon  as 
we  have  a  quiet  moment,  and  at  least  try  what  I  can 
do.  Really,  Mr.  Barclay,  you  have  been  our  haven 
of  refu!2:e  in  this  storm." 

At  this  Mr.  Barclay  politely  demurred,  attributing 
all  to  the  happy  accident  of  their  being  together. 
They  were  now  in  London,  and  making  haste  to  have 
May's  marriage  over  in  time  to  take  the  steamer 
home.  But  Miss  Alden,  at  the  last  moment,  had 
taken  a  freak  to  postpone  it ;  declaring  they  had  been 
too  precipitate,  and  that  such  unseemly  haste  was 
not  dignified.  Notwithstanding  Mr.  Potter's  family 
had  all  concurred,  and  that  a  younger  brother  was  to 
be  best  man,  she  shut  herself  up,  and  declined  to  have 
any  part  in  the  proceedings.     In  vain  Mr.  Barclay 


224  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

remonstrated,  and  Grace  argued,  and  May  wept :  there 
seemed  to  be  really  no  way  out  of  the  dilemma  but 
to  take  their  own  course,  regardless  of  her  disappro- 
bation. But  this  was  a  most  disagreeable  thing  to 
do ;  for  no  outsider  could  detect  in  Miss  Alden's  ir- 
reproachable appearance  and  manner  the  distraught 
condition  of  her  mind,  and  her  nieces'  love  and  re- 
spect for  her  were  undiminished.  Thus  several  weeks 
elapsed,  as  May  was  inclined  to  wait,  hoping  for  a 
change;  but  at  last  there  was  no  alternative,  and 
so  after  interviews  with  the  American  authorities 
and  legal  representatives,  and  clerical  dignitaries,  the 
little  party,  minus  Miss  Alden,  drove  to  St.  George's 
and  had  the  ceremony  performed. 

It  was  a  dull  day,  and  the  drizzle  did  not  lend  a 
cheerful  aspect  to  the  wedding.  Mr.  Barclay  gave 
the  bride  away ;  and  the  bride  herself  was  teary  and 
pale,  but  not  more  so  than  her  bridesmaid,  who, 
however,  strove  to  do  her  part  courageously.  There 
were  few  lookers-on,  but  that  they  did  not  mind ;  and, 
as  soon  as  the  service  was  concluded,  Branly  Potter 
hurried  May  off  to  catch  a  train  which  was  to  take 
them  to  Scotland,  for  he  was  determined  to  have  a 
little  honeymoon  which  should  be  as  bright  as  he 
could  make  it. 

Thus  Grace  and  Mr.  Barclay  were  daily  together. 
The  translating  had  progressed  favorably,  Grace  prov- 
ing herself  more  capable  than  he  could  have  sup- 
posed ;  and  as  Miss  Alden  preferred  to  be  much 
alone,  maintaining  a  proud  disapprobation,  they  were 
necessarily  dependent  upon  each  other  for  society. 

Who   does  not  know  the   power  of  propinquity? 


ASP  IRA  TIONS.  225 

Neither  would  have  admitted  for  a  moment  that 
there  was  any  thing  but  the  coolest,  calmest  friend- 
ship between  them.  Both  had  their  own  sad  memo- 
ries into  which  they  withdrew  as  into  the  shadow 
of  cathedral  aisles ;  and  yet,  in  these  retreats  they 
found  less  and  less  gloom.  The  afternoon  light 
from  ruby  panes  shone  not  with  a  richer  glow  than 
did  the  mellow  radiance  which  was  more  and  more 
surely  revealing  the  depths  of  these  two  hearts  each 
to  the  other. 

With  a  pang  of  remorse,  the  elder  was  the  first 
to  discover  that  he  no  longer  lived  in  the  past,  and 
measured  every  happiness  by  the  sorrow  of  his  youth. 
He  felt  himself  a  traitor  to  the  dear  companion  of 
early  days,  and  would  have  torn  himself  away  from 
this  sweet-faced,  gentle  girl  as  from  an  evil  influence, 
had  not  all  the  heroism  of  his  manhood  demanded 
that  he  should  not  desert  her. 

This  may  seem  absurd  in  the  face  of  his  written, 
but  unsent,  letter  to  Ruth  ;  but  a  totally  different  rea- 
son for  his  proposal  to  Ruth  had  urged  him  to  that 
action,  —  one  which  he  fancied  far  less  recreant  to 
the  beloved  object  of  his  early  affections;  and  he 
smiled,  as  he  tore  it  up,  to  think  how  purely  a  matter 
of  benefit  to  Ruth,  and  convenience  to  himself,  that 
idea  had  been.  And  yet  it  was  painful  for  him  to  ad- 
mit the  truth  ;  so  painful,  that  Grace  feared  she  had 
in  some  way  lost  his  confidence  and  approbation. 
And,  in  her  anxiety  on  this  account,  it  first  became 
evident  to  her  how  surely  his  untiring  kindness  and 
gentleness  of  character  were  effacing  the  memory  of 
that  sad  attachment  of  hers  for  a  man,  who,  though 


2  26  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

he  had  proved  himself  unworthy,  yet  remained  en- 
shrined as  a  broken  image  might  retain  its  place  on 
an  altar  deserted  of  its  worshippers. 

Ah,  poor  weak  and  blind  children  of  a  tender 
mother  !  Nature  knows  no  unmotherly  preferences  : 
as  she  commands,  we  obey ;  thinking  ourselves  wise, 
profound,  so  above  the  common  herd,  that  even  our 
affections  have  a  finer  and  firmer  texture,  —  one  that 
will  withstand  time,  silence,  distrust,  and  death  itself. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  227 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

Perhaps  nothing  is  more  depressing  and  mortify- 
ing than  to  find  that  which  one  has  supposed  to  be 
almost  an  heroic  action  entirely  deprived  of  its  best 
element,  to  have  our  poetry  reduced  to  common 
prose.  And  yet  this  conviction  is  just  what  pressed 
upon  Ruth,  as  she  paced  her  close  hotel-room  the 
night  of  her  arrival  in  New  York.  Her  aunt,  now 
that  she  was  on  her  native  shore,  and  having  her  son 
with  her,  was  in  a  most  satisfied  and  happy  condi- 
tion of  mind,  and  appeared  to  Ruth  not  only  not  to 
need  her,  but  to  find  her  just  a  little  unsociable  and 
inflexible.  For,  elated  with  having  made  a  successful 
voyage,  and  free  from  the  critical  and  uncongenial 
persons  she  had  met,  Mrs.  Vedder  had  loudly  pro- 
tested her  gladness  at  the  dinner-table,  and  had  even 
suggested,  but  quite  contrary  to  Ruth's  wishes,  a  trip 
to  a  watering-place  before  settling  down  at  home. 

It  had  been  a  day  of  remarkable  loveliness  and 
early  June  freshness.  Even  the  city  felt  its  charm  ; 
for  as  yet  there  had  been  little  of  the  intense  heat 
which  bakes  and  burns,  and  makes  New  York  a  ter- 
ror by  night  and  by  day. 

The  balconies  and  court-yards,  the  restaurant  win- 
dows  and    the    parks,   were    smiling   with   flowers. 


228  ASPIRATIONS. 

Heaps  of  them,  loosely  strewn  or  trimly  set  in  bas- 
kets, and  tied  and  wired  in  bouquets,  were  on  all  the 
street-corners,  compelling,  by  their  sweetness,  the 
banishment  of  evil  odors ;  and  on  the  table  in  her 
room  Ruth  had  found  a  choice  bunch  without  card 
or  name  attached.  So  delicate  an  attention  had  not 
come  from  the  Vedders  ;  and  poor  Ruth  put  her  face 
down  in  the  blossoms,  and  wet  them  with  her  tears. 
Her  sacrifice  of  inclination  had  lost  all  purpose  and 
merit.  She  was  tired,  disappointed,  and  disheart- 
ened. Her  pompous  uncle  reminded  her  of  the  sad 
days  of  her  childhood  in  this  great,  noisy  city ;  and 
the  thought  of  close  association  with  him  and  his  still 
more  repugnant  nephew  became  abhorrent.  How 
should  she  escape  ?  Must  she  be  tied  to  these 
people  until  Mr.  Barclay  should  release  her .''  Was 
there  no  way  out  of  this  enforced  bondage,  none 
the  less  enthralling  that  she  had  forged  the  bonds 
herself.^  She  could  not  sleep.  The  dinner  upon 
which  Mrs.  Vedder  had  so  felicitated  herself,  had 
hardly  been  tasted  ;  and  the  evening  had  only  been 
gotten  through  by  going  to  the  theatre,  where  Char- 
ley Vedder  found  some  pretty  actresses  who  were 
more  responsive  than  Ruth,  and  towards  whom  Ruth 
felt  almost  grateful  for  securing  his  attention. 
Morning  came  at  last,  but  brought  no  relief  to  the 
exhausted,  dejected  girl.  Mrs.  Vedder  was  even  in 
higher  spirits  than  on  the  previous  day,  and  had 
a  new  programme  made  out,  which  included  much 
shopping,  visiting,  and  many  excursions  ;  for  she 
was  honestly  desirous  of  entertaining  Ruth  in  her 
own  way,  and  had  not  the  faintest  conception  that 


ASPIRATIONS,  229 

there  could  be  any  other  which  would  be  more  agree- 
able. Mr.  Boggs  harangued  again  from  the  depths 
of  the  newspaper,  but  principally  on  political  matters 
and  side  issues  of  small  moment  to  any  uninterested 
in  local  affairs.  He  had  an  overbearing  way  of  deliv- 
ering the  slightest  opinion  ;  and  both  his  nephew 
and  sister  made  no  attempt  to  thwart  him,  though 
their  irritation  was  visible.  He  objected  to  every 
proposal,  was  urgent  to  have  his  nephew  enter  into 
some  business  arrangement  which  was  repugnant  to 
the  luxurious  young  man,  and  finally  told  his  sister 
that  she  must  attend  to  her  affairs,  as  his  own  were 
of  paramount  importance  and  called  him  home.  To 
this  there  was  no  remonstrance.  But  he  did  not  go 
until  he  had  again  made  Ruth  wince  by  unfeeling 
allusions  to  her  father,  and  his  own  regret  that  she 
should  have  been  brought  up  by  so  unpractical  a  man 
as  Mr.  Barclay  ;  for,  he  added,  — 

"  I've  no  sort  of  idea  your  accomplishments  are  of 
any  financial  value." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ruth,  smiling  a  sad  sort  of 
smile,  "  having  never  tested  them  in  that  way  ; "  but 
quite  sure  that  her  guardian  was  guilty  in  the  light 
of  Mr.  Boggs's  accusations. 

"But  you  may  have  to,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Boggs, 
resuming  what  might  better  be  called  a  monologue 
than  a  conversation.  "You  may  have  to.  Your 
father  didn't  leave  a  cent ;  your  grandfather  doesn't 
know  you,  and,  if  he  did,  would  just  as  likely  leave 
his  fortune  to  the  Lenox  Library.  He's  nothing  but 
an  old  bookworm.  Now,  if  I'd  had  a  hand  in  the 
care  of   you,  you'd  have   been   at  Vassar  or  some- 


230  ASPIRATIONS. 

where  else,  instead  of  dawdling  over  Europe ;  and  by 
this  time  you  could  have  had  a  good  situation  in  the 
public  schools.  My  influence  would  have  procured 
that.  But  I  did  my  best.  I  warned  Mr.  Barclay, 
and  I  offered  to  do  my  share.  He  was  too  proud 
and  stuck-up  to  listen  to  me ;  and,  if  ever  you  suffer, 
it'll  not  be  my  fault.  Has  he  made  provision  for 
you,  in  case  he  marries  ?  or  does  he  mean  to  marry 
you?" 

This  question  capped  the  climax. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  public  parlor,  —  Mrs.  Ved- 
der  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  throng  in  the 
street ;  Charley  with  his  back  to  the  empty  fire- 
place, twisting  his  thin  mustache,  and  watching  Ruth 
as  she  leaned  back  in  the  cushions  of  a  sofa,  with  a 
book  in  her  lap.  She  was  tired  and  pale, — almost 
as  white  as  her  muslin  draperies,  with  their  falls  of 
creamy  lace,  —  but  her  only  sign  of  uneasiness  had 
been  in  a  little  nervous  movement  of  her  hands. 
Now  the  color  poured  into  her  face.  She  looked  at 
Mr.  Boggs  with  an  expression  in  which  were  blended 
indignation  and  contempt ;  but,  meeting  his  self- 
confident  and  impertinent  gaze,  she  regained  her 
composure,  and  said  very  quietly,  — 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  discussing  my  private 
affairs  in  this  manner,  Mr.  Boggs ;  nor  do  I  think 
your  interest  in  me  warrants  any  inquiry  of  the  sort. 
You  forget  that  we  are  comparative  strangers." 

Mr.  Boggs  glared,  Charley  Vedder  drew  in  a  half- 
suppressed  whistle,  and  Mrs.  Vedder  turned  from  the 
window  to  see  what  was  going  on  within.  The  scowl 
on  her  brother's  face,  and  Ruth's  returned  paleness^ 


ASPIRATIONS.  231 

would  have  warned  any  one  else ;  but  she  was  too 
obtuse,  and  instantly  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

**  Matter  enough,"  growled  Mr.  Boggs.  "A  decent 
question  deserves  a  decent  answer ;  but  I'm  not  fine 
enough  for  this  elegant  piece  of  goods  you've  got 
hold  of,  Mrs.  Vedder." 

"O  Cauldwell!"  ejaculated  his  sister,  "don't  be 
cross  so  soon ;  you're  forever  finding  fault  with  Jim 
and  Charley,  but  you  might  let  Ruth  alone. — Come, 
Ruth,  don't  mind  him :  he  is  always  preaching.  Let's 
go  out  and  shop.  I  want  lots  of  things,  and  it's  ever 
so  much  easier  to  buy  things  here  than  where  they 
jabber  French  at  you." 

She  rose  and  trailed  one  of  her  new  French  gar- 
ments after  her,  in  which  she  was  as  dazzling  as  the 
Queen  of  Sheba;  and  Ruth  followed,  glad  of  the 
chance  to  escape,  but  in  no  mood  for  the  doubtful 
pleasure  promised. 

The  day  had  grown  very  warm,  with  the  sudden 
fiery  heat  which  comes  like  a  simoom ;  and,  though 
Mrs.  Vedder  took  a  cab  as  she  went  about  from  place 
to  place,  Ruth  became  more  and  more  wearied.  The 
city  was  entirely  new  to  her,  and  many  of  its  ways 
contrasted  singularly  with  her  foreign  experiences ; 
none  more  so  than  the  tardiness  or  indifference 
manifested  in  the  shops. 

But  Mrs.  Vedder  was  thoroughly  happy.  She 
chaffed  the  clerks,  joked  with  their  superiors,  and 
tumbled  about  the  fineries  as  remorselessly  as  if  they 
were  her  own  ;  and,  when  at  the  end  of  her  pur- 
chases, sighed  that  she  had  no  more  money  to  spend, 
or  wants  to  gratify.     After  an  ice  at  a  restaurant, 


232  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

they  drove  about  the  town,  despite  the  glare  from 
the  heated  pavements.  With  Mrs.  Vedder  as  cice- 
roncy  it  was  no  wonder  that  Ruth  became  hopelessly 
mixed  as  to  localities  ;  and  she  had  only  a  confused 
sense  of  row  upon  row  of  tall  and  narrow  buildings, 
incongruous  architecture,  and  showy  equipages,  min- 
gled with  the  painful  remembrance  of  the  corner 
drug-shop  where  she  had  procured  her  father's  last 
bottle  of  medicine,  which  was  doubly  enforced  by 
Mrs.  Vedder's  pointing  out  the  dingy  boarding-house 
from  which  her  poor  father  had  been  carried  to  his 
last  resting-place.  Had  Ruth  been  of  the  sternest 
stuff,  she  could  hardly  have  steeled  herself  to  bear 
two  such  blows  as  she  received  that  day  from  her 
well-meaning,  but  callous,  relatives,  without  giving 
evidence  of  it.  As  it  was,  she  became  ill  enough  to 
excuse  herself  from  any  more  immediate  expeditions, 
and  shut  herself  in  her  room  for  at  least  twenty-four 
hours,  —  hours  of  lonely  self-reproach  and  regret, 
and  a  dull  sense  of  resistance. 

The  heat  had  not  abated,  and  the  incessant  roar 
of  the  surging  multitude  about  the  hotel  made  her 
long  for  quiet.  Not  even  a  letter  had  come  to  cheer 
her,  and  Mr.  Vedder  had  made  this  the  topic  of  fre- 
quent jest,  —  striving  to  pierce  the  thick  armor  of  a 
reserve  which  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  wear  in 
his  presence.  He  was  the  type  of  man  she  most 
disliked,  — frivolous,  insincere,  sensual,  and  selfish, 
and  yet  attracted  to  her  by  one  of  those  peculiar  and 
inexplicable  attachments  which  have  no  foundation 
in  any  congruity  of  nature,  and  seem  to  be  merely 
wanton  freaks.     Why  he  persisted  in  his  attentions. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  233 

she  could  not  conceive.  He  loudly  admired  the 
powdered  and  painted  damsels  of  the  ballet ;  was  as 
quick  to  perceive  the  fine  points  of  a  handsome 
woman  as  of  a  fast  horse,  and  in  much  the  same 
terms ;  and,  in  short,  had  no  sense  of  appreciation 
of  any  thing  delicate  or  sensitive.  Ruth  did  not 
think  of  herself  as  I  have  put  it,  but  she  knew  she 
had  nothing  in  common  with  Mr.  Vedder,  —  no  point 
of  approach  in  any  one  way;  and  yet  he,  in  these  few 
days,  had  striven  to  pose  as  her  lover. 

If  any  thing  had  been  needed  to  complete  her  un- 
happiness,  this  accomplished  it;  and,  without  coming 
to  any  definite  conclusion,  she  was  casting  about  for 
a  way  of  escape.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
speak  to  her  aunt,  whose  satisfaction  at  her  son's  re- 
gard for  Ruth  made  her  supremely  happy,  and  who 
was  purposely  delaying  her  departure  from  the  city, 
"that  Charley  might  have  more  of  a  chance." 

She  had  no  intimate  friends  in  town,  and  no  desire 
to  seek  their  advice  (notwithstanding  one  has  said 
very  wisely,  "  Men  choose  a  course  of  action,  women 
an  adviser  ")  in  any  case  ;  for  an  instant,  the  thought 
of  her  unknown  grandfather  flashed  across  her  mind, 
to  be  quickly  put  aside.  But  help  was  nearer  than 
she  thought. 


234  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

New  York  is  thought  to  be  too  crude  and  new, 
too  barren  of  old  historic  mould,  to  bear  upon  its 
exterior  any  of  the  clinging  ivy  of  romance.  Com- 
merce has  its  grip  upon  much  that  might  have  been 
retained  to  suggest  that  past  which  is  not  wholly 
devoid  of  dignity,  and  which  had  a  delicate  flavor 
which  is  fast  disappearing  under  the  rank  growth  of 
excessive  wealth.  But,  in  spite  of  its  mercantile  ad- 
vancement, there  are  some  quarters  of  the  city  which 
are  more  interesting  to  the  student  of  human  nature 
than  might  be  supposed  possible.  One  of  these  is 
situated  between  the  two  extremes  of  business  and 
fashion.  It  is  comparatively  quiet  and  unassuming ; 
but  it  has  some  points  of  elegance  and  picturesque- 
ness  dear  to  its  denizens,  and  wears  upon  its  face  an 
expression  of  ease  and  contentment  which  comes 
from  a  sense  of  superiority  to  the  vulgar  haste  with 
which  the  towering  tenements  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  city  rear  themselves.  Just  beyond  this  pleasant 
quarter  are  abodes  of  vice  and  misery,  and  perhaps 
because  of  their  close  proximity  stands  one  of  the 
oldest  churches  in  the  town,  —  a  structure  suggestive 
of  mediaeval  architecture,  with  its  castellated  Nor- 
man towers  and  oaken  doors ;  a  church  that  was  once 


ASPIRATIONS.  235 

the  resort  of  the  wealthy,  but  which  now  opens  its 
pews  principally  to  the  poor.  Faithfully  and  regu- 
larly are  its  services  maintained,  without  any  of  the 
modern  arts  with  which  people  are  lured  to  their 
duty,  but  with  a  simplicity  and  earnestness  which 
commend  themselves  to  the  humble  and  God-fearing 
worshipper. 

Not  far  from  the  church,  in  one  of  the  side  streets 
which  diverge  from  this  region,  is  the  mission-house 
of  the  old  church,  —  a  place  where  its  charities  are  dis- 
pensed, and  from  which  proceed  other  Christian  in- 
dustries. It  is  under  no  ecclesiastical  rule  other  than 
that  of  the  parish  rector,  nor  is  it  obligatory  that  its 
affairs  shall  be  administered  by  a  sisterhood ;  though 
its  active  work  and  good  organization  are  undoubt- 
edly due  to  the  same  spirit  of  self-abnegation  and 
Christian  love  which  animate  the  sisterhoods.  It  is  a 
centre  of  influence  for  good,  physically,  morally,  and 
spiritually,  combining  as  it  does  a  lodging-house  for 
the  church's  homeless  ones  ;  an  infirmary  for  its  sick ; 
a  dispensary  for  the  ailing ;  a  meeting-place  for  its 
workers ;  and  rest,  refreshment,  advice,  as  well  as 
food  and  clothing,  for  the  needy. 

On  this  warm  summer  morning  St.  Armand's  had 
been  unusually  well  attended.  A  few  families  of 
distinction  still  cling  to  it,  and  many  short  sojourn- 
ers in  the  neighborhood  find  it  a  welcome  retreat. 
All  these  and  more  had  shared  in  the  services,  as  well 
as  strangers  from  the  near  hotels ;  among  them,  our 
little,  disappointed  Ruth,  who,  hearing  it  mentioned, 
had  found  her  way  to  it  alone,  without  the  irksome 
attendance  of  her  cousin.    She  had  walked  the  whole 


236  ASPIRATIONS. 

distance  down  the  glaring  avenue,  with  the  hot  sun 
in  her  eyes,  and  was  glad  to  get  within  the  sombre 
coolness  of  St.  Armand's ;  but  the  services  had 
soothed  her,  and  she  had  lingered  till  nearly  all  the 
congregation  had  dispersed,  when,  rising  suddenly,  a 
faintness  came  over  her  which  obliged  her  to  resume 
her  seat. 

"  Are  you  not  well } "  said  an  even-toned  voice  in 
her  ear ;  and,  looking  up,  she  saw  a  gentlewoman  in 
garments  of  black,  but  with  the  rigid  simplicity  of  a 
Quaker's  dress.  The  face  within  the  small  poke- 
bonnet  was  so  sympathetic  that  Ruth  would  have 
been  glad  to  respond,  but  her  voice  failed  her :  she 
could  only  gasp  "  water,"  and  then  the  darkness  of 
unconsciousness  overpowered  her. 

When  she  recovered,  she  was  in  the  open  air,  sup- 
ported by  the  lady,  and  having  stimulants  proffered 
her  by  the  sexton.  Quickly  rallying,  she  made  an  at- 
tempt to  walk,  and  would  have  summoned  a  cab ;  but 
the  lady  was  urgent  to  have  her  remain  until  stronger, 
and  begged  that  she  might  accompany  her  to  the 
mission-house. 

*'  It  is  but  a  short  walk,  and  the  effort  may  revive 
you.  Let  me  have  my  way,  and  do  something  for 
you.  I  am  known  as  the  Sister  Camilla,  and  it  is 
my  vocation  to  aid  the  sick  and  suffering." 

The  calm  voice,  in  which  there  was  a  ring  of  resem- 
blance to  that  of  some  one  of  her  own  friends,  and 
the  persuasive  manner,  carried  the  point.  Ruth  took 
her  new  friend's  arm,  and  walked  away. 

"This  is  my  first  Sunday  in  New  York  since  I 
was  a  little   child,"  she   explained ;  "  and  I  did  not 


AS  PI R  A  TIONS.  237 

realize  the  heat  of  the  day,  in  coming  so  far.  I  am 
Miss  Morris." 

"  Of  Morristown  1 "  questioned  Sister  Camilla. 

"  No,  of  New  York.  But  I  have  been  abroad  so 
long  with  my  guardian,  Mr.  Barclay,  that  I  am  almost 
an  alien." 

"  I  know  a  Mr.  Barclay  of  Boston.  Is  he  not  related 
to  Miss  Alden  .?  " 

"Oh,"  joyfully  exclaimed  Ruth,  "it  is  the  same 
one  !  No,  he  is  not  related  to  Miss  Alden,  but  we  are 
all  friends.     Oh,  this  is  charming  !  " 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  responded  the  quiet  sister,  regard- 
ing her  young  companion  with  admiration;  "for 
now  I  can  claim  you  for  more  than  a  moment's  rest. 
I  should  like  to  hear  about  the  schools  in  Italy,  for 
which  Mr.  Barclay  has  done  so  much." 

"  And  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  have  something  to  tell 
Mr.  Barclay  about  you." 

"  Not  about  me,  but  my  work,"  said  Sister  Camilla. 
"And  h^re  we  are  at  the  mission-house.  You  will 
dine  with  me  now,  and  let  me  be  assured  that  your 
faintness  was  but  temporary.  May  I  send  any  word 
for  you  to  your  friends  t  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  none ! "  came  forth  from  Ruth,  with 
an  ingenuous  earnestness  that  made  Sister  Camilla 
pause  in  surprise  and  pain. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  child  ? "  she  asked. 

Whether  it  was  due  to  an  overburdened  mind,  or 
the  strange,  quaint  unworldliness  of  the  religiatscy 
and  her  simple  directness,  and  the  peaceful  atmos- 
phere of  her  quiet,  darkened  apartment,  acting  upon 
an  imaginative  nature,  Ruth  could  not  have  defined ; 


238  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

but,  in  another  moment,  she  was  opening  her  griefs 
to  Sister  Camilla  as  to  a  confessor.  To  no  one  else 
could  she  have  so  spoken,  and  to  no  one  better  quali- 
fied to  listen.  She  did  not  speak  of  the  one  thing 
even  yet  hidden  to  herself,  —  the  vague  and  tender 
longing  of  her  heart,  —  but  she  spoke  of  her  utter 
disappointment,  her  dissatisfaction,  her  wasted  effort ; 
she  told  how  she  had  really  longed  to  be  useful  to 
her  aunt,  but  how  entirely  impossible  it  was ;  and 
then  she  touched  lightly  upon  the  new  and  repug- 
nant situation  in  which  Mr.  Vedder's  attentions  had 
placed  her. 

**  Clearly,  this  is  a  case  for  me,"  said  Sister  Ca- 
milla, smiling,  as  Ruth  paused  in  her  impassioned 
speech,  and  pressed  her  hand  held  out  so  cordially. 

"  Oh,  can  you  help  me  t  Can  you  suggest  to  me 
what  I  shall  do  t  You  must  be  so  wise,  so  clear- 
sighted," cried  Ruth. 

**  Do  you  think  you  could  endure  to  share  what  I 
can  offer,  —  for  a  while  t  "  said  Sister  Camilla. 

"Endure !  Why,  this  seems  peace  and  heaven  itself, 
compared  to  what  is  before  me !  Let  me  share  your 
work  too  :  it  is  what  I  have  longed  to  do." 

"  But  the  Vedders,  —  how  will  you  explain  t  Must 
I  do  it  for  you  .? " 

"  No  ;  I  can  be  brave.  They  will  be  angry  enough, 
but  that  will  not  hurt  them.  I  will  tell  my  aunt  that 
this  is  just  what  I  need.  She  is  generous  enough  to 
yield,  not  because  she  will  understand,  but  because 
she  has  doubted  me  from  the  first.  Poor  woman,  she 
was  wise  enough  to  see  that  we  'had  no  affinity  ! " 

"  And  her  son  } " 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  239 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  he  may  regard  it,"  and 
Ruth  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

"  Is  he  capable  of  revenge  ?  '* 

"  I  do  not  know.     He  is  both  weak  and  wicked." 

"  An  undesirable  compound.  But  how  do  you  know 
that  you  will  like  my  monotonous  toil,  my  meagre 
hospitality } " 

"  Something  assures  me  of  peace  here,"  answered 
Ruth,  glancing  at  the  chaste  and  simple  neatness  of 
the  room,  and  the  calm  exterior  of  her  companion. 

"  Can  you  put  aside  these  pretty  garments  "i "  said 
the  sister,  touching  Ruth's  gauzy  habiliments,  which 
glittered  with  beads  of  iridescent  hue ;  "for  of  course 
they  would  be  superfluous  here." 

"  Gladly  ; "  and  she  thought,  but  did  not  say,  "  They 
are  symbols  of  a  false  happiness,  while  yours  indicate 
a  useful  life  and  higher  aspirations." 

"  Come  with  me,  then,  and  see  our  rooms  for  the 
sick  people.     Perhaps  they  may  intimidate  you." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  led  Ruth  to  where  the 
narrow  cots  in  their  white  draperies  stood,  —  some 
empty,  some  bearing  pale-faced  invalids.  Every 
thing  was  neat  and  spotless ;  but  it  was  the  abode  of 
suffering,  and  the  cross  upon  the  wall  was  the  token 
of  its  only  hope. 

"  You  cannot  alarm  me,"  said  Ruth,  as  she  watched 
the  pale  faces  brighten  at  the  sister's  approach,  and 
heard  her  words  of  cheer. 

"Then,  if  you  are  resolute,  we  will  take  counsel 
here,"  said  Sister  Camilla,  opening  another  door,  dis- 
closing a  small  oratory.  In  silence  they  knelt  on  the 
cushions  before  a  reading-desk  which  held  a  Bible 


240  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

and  a  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  and  in  silence  they 
arose,  feeling  no  need  of  speech.  The  compact  was 
made. 

After  that  they  had  a  genuine  love-feast.  A  note 
had  been  despatched  to  Mrs.  Vedder ;  and  Ruth,  re- 
covering some  of  her  vivacity,  talked  brightly  of  her 
travels,  of  their  mutual  friends,  of  books  and  music. 
Sister  Camilla  had  no  depressing  austerity  of  de- 
meanor :  she  was  cheerful,  even  gay,  with  a  fund  of 
anecdote,  and  quickness  of  repartee.  The  dining- 
table  was  spread  on  a  vine-covered  piazza,  where 
flowers  bloomed,  and  birds  in  cages  sang.  It  opened 
into  a  little,  narrow  city  garden,  trimly  set  with  box, 
but  making  a  spot  of  greenery  most  pleasant  to  the 
eye,  despite  the  brick  walls  surrounding  it. 

Ruth  could  scarcely  understand  her  own  rise  of 
spirits.  Her  faintness  had  gone  entirely,  and  Sister 
Camilla's  companionship  enabled  her  to  be  herself 
again,  —  something  she  had  not  been  during  all  the 
Vedder  period.  Unconsciously  with  them  she  with- 
held herself,  spoke  in  commonplaces,  ventured  no 
deep  thoughts,  was  guarded  at  all  points,  as  one 
must  be  with  coarse  or  even  common  natures,  unless 
they  wish  their  sanctities  trampled  upon.  Now  she 
spoke  of  sweet  and  serious  things  long  treasured  in 
her  mind,  and  found  in  Sister  Camilla  a  responsive- 
ness and  understanding  that  warmed  and  exalted  her. 

But  this  peace  was  rudely  broken.  St.  Armand's 
bell  had  begun  to  summon  them  to  afternoon  prayers, 
—  the  day  was  waning,  — when,  with  loud  and  impet- 
uous haste,  Mrs.  Vedder  burst  in  upon  them. 

"  What  is  all  this  nonsense,  Ruth  }     Why  did  you 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  24 1 

frighten  me  half  out  of  my  wits  sending  me  word 
you  were  sick  ?  Who  is  your  friend  ? "  (this  in  a 
stage-whisper).  "  A  nun,  to  be  sure.  None  of  your 
nuns  for  me :  I've  seen  enough  of  them  in  Europe. 
Come,  I  want  you  to  go  to  Central  Park  with  me.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  get  my  nap,  and  my  head  aches. 
Come  along.  Charley  will  meet  us,  and  to-morrow 
we  must  be  off  for  Saratoga." 

"  I  find  that  Sister  Camilla  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Bar- 
clay's, aunt  Abby,"  said  Ruth.  **  She  has  been  most 
kind  to  me.     I  was  quite  ill  in  church  this  morning." 

Sister  Camilla  had  risen  at  once,  and  welcomed 
Mrs.  Vedder,  who  chose  to  be  very  distant,  in  a  child- 
ish, undignified  way  that  she  once  in  a  while  assumed 
when  displeased. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Well,  I  thought  you  were  foolish 
to  come  so  far  down-town.  I've  got  a  carriage  at 
the  door:  a  ride  will  do  you  good." 

Ruth  knew  that  the  storm  had  to  be  met ;  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  to  break  the  news  to  her  aunt 
gently,  and  without  disturbing  Sister  Camilla :  so  she 
said  she  would  go;  "to  return  as  soon  as  I  can,"  she 
whispered  to  her  new  friend. 

"What  is  that  you  were  saying  to  that  woman } " 
Mrs.  Vedder  asked,  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the 
carriage.  "  I  don't  like  her  looks.  What  does  she 
dress  up  in  that  way  for  1  Who  is  she,  anyhow }  And 
what  possessed  you  to  dine  there  instead  of  at  the 
hotel,  where  you  can  get  any  thing  you  want  that's 
to  be  had  for  money." 

Ruth  despaired  of  making  Mrs.  Vedder,  whose 
religious  feelings  were  very  crude,  comprehend  her 


242  ASPIRA  TJONS. 

new  plan  or  Sister  Camilla :  so  she  wisely  forebore 
an  explanation,  but,  in  as  direct  a  way  as  she  could, 
told  her  aunt  that  Sister  Camilla  had  invited  her  to 
make  her  a  visit,  and  she  had  accepted. 

*'  What !  stay  in  that  dismal  hole  this  hot  summer 
weather?  You're  crazy,  Ruth;  you're  out  of  your 
senses ! " 

"  No,  aunt  Abby,  I  prefer  it  to  Saratoga." 

**  Nonsense,  nonsense  !  " 

"  But  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind." 

Then  Mrs.  Vedder  stormed,  and  became  more  and 
more  angry.  She  had  lost  all  the  humility  with  which 
her  foreign  disappointments  had  invested  her;  and 
she  boldly  told  Ruth  that  she  believed  she  was  pin- 
ing for  Mr.  Barclay,  and  that  Charley  was  a  great 
deal  more  suitable ;  that  she  ought  to  be  kinder  to 
him,  and  not  treat  him  as  if  he  were  the  scum  of  the 
earth.  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  lioness  and  her 
whelp.  She  forgot  every  thing  but  her  own  griev- 
ance; and  the  crowd  of  amusement-seekers  in  the 
Park,  that  Sunday  afternoon,  turned  their  startled 
gaze  upon  the  occupants  of  the  landau,  where  a  red 
and  voluble  woman  sat  beside  a  pale  and  delicate  girl, 
who  received  the  storm  of  words  in  silence.  But  this 
phase  of  the  situation  wore  off  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  hotel ;  and  Mrs.  Vedder,  whose  moods  were 
very  variable,  became  tearful  and  penitent.  But  Ruth 
was  not  to  be  shaken.  With  quiet  determination, 
she  packed  and  locked  her  trunks,  wrote  her  letters, 
and  made  her  preparations.  She  pitied  her  aunt,  but 
her  conviction  that  she  had  made  a  grievous  mistake 
in  thinking  that  she  could  be  conducive  to  her  happi- 
ness remained  the  same. 


ASPIRATIONS,  243 

They  parted  the  next  day,  kindly,  even  affection- 
ately,—  for  all  the  quarrel;  Charley  only  maintain- 
ing a  sullen  scorn.  Several  letters  for  Ruth  were 
in  his  pocket.  He  took  them  out,  and  burned  them, 
one  by  one,  in  the  gaslight  of  the  smoking-room. 
Mrs.  Vedder  was  quite  sure  Ruth  would  soon  join 
her  at  Berryville. 


244  ASPIRA  TIONS, 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

Saratoga  is  a  social  vortex,  which  gathers  in  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  from  the  gravest  to 
the  gayest,  —  the  clergyman  and  the  gambler  being 
led  thither  by  as  contrary  roads  as  can  well  be  con- 
ceived; and  it  would  be  an  endless  task  to  attempt 
to  delineate  the  mixed  motives  which  propel  the 
crowd  towards  its  refreshing  waters. 

It  was  not  therefore  surprising  that  the  two  men 
of  my  story  most  interested  in  a  certain  charming 
young  woman  should  have  met  in  Saratoga,  under 
circumstances  far  from  pleasing  to  either.  One  was 
perplexed,  uncertain,  and  desponding,  as  the  more 
sensitive,  artistic  nature  is  so  apt  to  be  when  the 
world's  jar  and  confusion  disturb  its  delicate  balance. 
The  other  was  vexed,  snarling,  and  sore  at  the  depri- 
vation of  any  thing  which  his  selfishness  craved. 
Neither  would  have  approached  the  other,  had  they 
not  been  in  a  measure  forced  to  do  so  by  meeting  at 
a  public  table,  and  the  angry  one  being  desirous  of 
getting  a  chance  to  wreak  his  wrath  to  its  fullest  ex- 
tent. To  Lillo's  annoyance,  the  story  of  his  life  had 
gone  before  him.  He  had  been  to  Codtown,  was 
returning,  and  had  stopped  at  Saratoga  to  find  a  man 
with  whom  he  had  business  relations. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  245 

Before  he  knew  it,  he  was  a  centre  of  attraction. 
Cards  were  showered  upon  him,  introductions  sought, 
invitations  given,  and  a  bevy  of  pretty  girls  making 
him  the  target  of  their  bright  attacks. 

"  The  Count  Romano  "  they  insisted  upon  calling 
him,  with  true  republican  distaste  for  the  plain  *'  Mr.'* 
But  it  was  as  Mr.  Marsh  that  he  responded. 

"  Find  yourself  quite  a  lion,  don't  you } "  said 
Charley  Vedder,  between  the  puffs  of  his  cigar,  as 
the  two  strolled  towards  one  of  the  springs,  after  a 
brief  allusion  to  Miss  Morris,  in  which  Charley 
managed  to  convey  an  impression  that  she  was  to 
rejoin  them  shortly. 

"Oh,  any  thing  serves  as  a  subject  for  gossip  in 
this  warm  weather,"  said  Lillo  absently. 

"Have  you  been  interviewed  by  the  newspaper 
men  > " 

"  Not  yet." 

"They  know  how  to  do  it  in  a  devilish  under- 
handed way." 

"It's  rather  hard  lines  to  earn  one's  living  by  that 
sort  of  rubbish,"  said  the  painter,  in  the  same  non- 
chalant manner  with  which  the  talk  had  begun. 

"Then  you've  no  objection  to  furnishing  the  beg- 
gars with  their  means  of  subsistence  .-*  " 

"  I  am  not  anxious  to  do  it,"  said  the  other,  and 
turned  to  join  an  acquaintance. 

"I'll  give  them  a  few  points,"  muttered  Vedder, 
casting  a  glance  fraught  with  malice  after  the  artist, 
who  was  now  the  centre  of  a  group  of  men  whom 
Vedder  knew  only  as  people  of  social  worth  and 
standing,  but  who  would  have  none  of  him.      The 


246  ASPIRATIONS, 

opportunity  was  not  slow  in  coming.  A  reporter, 
with  his  roll  of  yellow  paper,  was  on  the  piazza  of  the 
hotel,  taking  notes,  as  Vedder  returned.  A  cigar 
and  a  glass  of  whiskey  soon  established  harmonious 
relations  between  them,  and  the  catechism  which  fol- 
lowed enabled  Charley  to  do  what  he  wished  without 
much  mental  effort. 

The  following  morning  Mr.  Vedder  was  absent 
from  the  breakfast-table  when  Lillo  appeared.  He 
thus  lost  half  his  sport  at  seeing  the  latter  turn  over 
the  pages  of  a  morning  journal,  glance  down  a  cer- 
tain column,  crush  the  paper  suddenly,  and  thrust  it 
aside ;  while  the  veins  of  his  temples  swelled,  and  the 
angry  flash  of  his  eyes  betokened  a  storm.  Rising 
impetuously,  he  left  his  breakfast  half  eaten,  and 
sought  the  open  air.  Who  had  thus  dared  to  make 
his  affairs  the  subject  of  so  much  idle  talk,  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  what  he  read  between  the 
lines.  The  innuendoes,  the  hints  which  made  his 
blood  boil,  were  of  Ruth  ;  and  the  climax  was  capped 
by  an  insinuation  that  the  artist's  rival  was  by  no 
means  his  junior.  Of  course  there  were  no  names, 
and  there  was  a  misty  veil  of  sentiment  concealing 
facts ;  so  that  the  whole  read  more  as  an  emanation 
from  the  writer's  brain  than  a  veritable  history.  But 
Lillo  saw  it  all,  and  it  burned  into  his  brain  like 
caustic.  His  hot,  Italian  blood  was  in  a  ferment, 
and  yet  he  scorned  himself  for  his  anger.  Why 
should  he  rave  at  the  wretched  scribbling  of  this 
penny-a-liner  }  He  flung  himself  into  the  crowd  on 
its  way  to  some  boat-races,  and  strove  to  forget  the 
insult.     Had  his  passion  for  Ruth  needed  any  stimu- 


ASPIRATIONS.  247 

lus,  it  received  it  now.  Her  grace,  sweetness,  and 
companionable  qualities  were  not  of  an  order  to 
inspire  furious  ardor ;  but  a  Cleopatra  might  have 
been  satisfied  with  the  sudden  blaze  that  rose  in  his 
breast,  and  made  her  seem  the  only  necessary  acqui- 
sition to  his  happiness.  What  would  success,  fame, 
the  fulfilment  of  his  wishes  be  without  her  ?  Apples 
of  Sodom,  indeed  !  He  wanted  nothing  of  his  Ro- 
mano relative ;  but,  if  the  title  would  win  her,  he 
would  take  it.  He  had  the  necessary  proofs  of  his 
rights  ;  but,  unless  she  so  ordered,  they  should  never 
be  presented.  And  then  came  the  chilling  doubt  of 
Mr.  Barclay's  prior  claim.  Why  might  not  a  man 
fight  for  the  object  of  his  affections  as  in  primitive 
times.!*  Why  couldn't  he  seize  her  and  ride  like 
young  Lochinvar.?  Must  he  stand  idly  by  and  let 
that  gray -haired  "  dotard  "  mildly  take  as  his  due  all 
her  wealth  of  young  affection  }  And  then  he  reverted 
to  the  newspaper's  cut-and-dried  phrases,  in  which 
he  was  alluded  to  as  a  disappointed  aspirant,  etc. 
Who  could  have  done  it  t  A  rollicking  set  of  men 
drove  past  him,  and  Charley  Vedder  gave  him  a 
familiar  nod.  Then  came  like  a  flash  the  few  words 
of  the  day  before.  Could  it  be  possible  that  this  fool 
had  been  amusing  himself  in  so  contemptible  a  man- 
ner }  and  if  he  had,  how  could  he  punish  him  ?  He 
was  impervious  to  slights,  or  the  ordinary  way  in 
which  gentlemen  rebuked  each  other.  Nothing  but 
a  sound  thrashing  would  make  an  impression  on  him. 
The  temptation  to  give  it  increased  as  he  went  on  ; 
his  fists  clinched  involuntarily,  and  the  desire  to 
whip  the  scoundrel  was  so  strong  that  he  found  him- 


248  ASPIRATIONS. 

self  following  the  man  to  the  stand  where  a  good  view 
was  to  be  had  of  the  boats. 

A  gleaming,  pretty  sheet  of  water,  on  which  the 
dazzling  sun  was  pouring  his  hottest  rays ;  crowds  of 
gayly  dressed  women  in  pleasure-boats,  in  carriages, 
on  foot ;  men  of  all  ages,  with  the  ribbons  of  their 
favorites  in  their  button-holes,  laughing,  cheering, 
betting ;  and  the  long  line  of  rowers  bared  to  the 
waist,  bending  to  their  oars,  as  they  sent  their  skiffs 
over  the  water  with  electric  rapidity,  —  this  was  the 
scene  before  him.  But  he  was  in  no  mood  to  enjoy 
it.     A  pretty  throng  of  girls  saluted  him. 

"  Who  will  win  ?  "  "  Which  do  you  think  has  the 
best  chance  ?  "  **  Be  on  our  side,  do  !  "  "See,  there's 
Harry  Holton  ;  what  splendid  muscle  !  "  "  Did  you 
ever  see  the  equal  of  this  abroad  }  "  These  were  the 
words  flying  about  his  ears,  when  he  heard  a  strange, 
cracking  sound.  The  boats  had  flashed  past :  it 
could  not  come  from  them.  The  hub-bub  of  voices 
increased  as  each  one  strove  to  exalt  his  favorite;  but 
the  laughter  rose  to  a  shrill  shriek,  for  now,  not  only 
was  the  cracking  heard,  but  there  came  a  great  crash, 
and  down  went  half  of  the  stand  whereon  stood  so 
merry  a  throng  of  human  beings.  The  light  jest, 
the  lively  banter,  merged  into  groans  and  screams. 
Dense  confusion  ensued.  Those  not  on  the  struc- 
ture crowded  about  to  succor  those  who  were.  Men 
and  women  fought  frantically  to  push  their  way  in 
and  out,  displaying  the  usual  selfishness  of  fear.  It 
was  a  time  of  wildest  disorder,  and  the  little  squad  of 
country  police  were  at  their  wit's  end  to  know  what 
to  do. 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  249 

Lillo  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  notice  the  sway- 
ing of  the  light  structure,  as  well  as  to  hear  the 
cracking  sound,  and  had  leaped  quickly  aside,  grasp- 
ing as  he  did  so  the  girl  nearest  him,  and  pushing 
several  others  towards  the  steps.  These  were  then 
in  no  danger,  but  it  had  been  impossible  to  save 
more  ;  and  though  the  water  was  by  no  means  deep, 
nor  the  stand  very  high,  there  were  many  who  might 
be  seriously  injured.  He  had  dashed  therefore  into 
the  water,  and  with  the  alertness  of  one  accustomed 
to  it  was  soon  relieving  others,  and  giving  orders  to 
the  clumsy  but  well-intentioned  countrymen  about 
him,  who  were  only  too  glad  to  be  directed.  In  the 
exercise  of  this  authority  he  was  obliged  to  divest 
himself  of  as  much  of  his  clothing  as  he  could  tear 
off,  and  plunge  into  deeper  water.  He  found  the 
current  strong,  but  not  strong  enough  to  warrant  a 
curious,  dragging  sensation  which  now  thwarted  his 
movements,  and  which,  striking  out  to  rid  himself  of, 
he  became  conscious  was  the  grasp  of  a  man. 

This  meant  death,  unless  he  could  get  free.  Vainly 
he  struggled  to  see  who  was  thus  clutching  him  with 
drowning  desperation.  The  more  he  strove,  the 
more  frantic  and  fast  became  the  other's  grasp.  But 
now  their  positions  changed ;  for  Lillo,  with  the  art  of 
a  practised  swimmer,  made  a  movement  which  threw 
the  man  beneath  him,  and  then  both  sank.  But,  as 
the  clear  water  bubbled  over  them,  he  saw  Charley 
Vedder's  distorted  features. 

For  an  instant  a  fiendish  joy  took  possession  of 
him  ;  but  in  another  he  was  aware  not  only  of  his  own 
danger,  but  also  of  the  necessity  for  a  cool  and  calm 


250  ASPIRATIONS. 

effort  that  should  save  them  both.  He  was  so  used 
to  the  water,  that  many  of  his  movements  were  invol- 
untary ;  and,  indeed,  now  there  seemed  to  be  two  dis- 
tinct and  separate  lines  of  thought  flashing  along  the 
electric  wires  of  his  nerves.  With  one  he  main- 
tained his  composure,  his  presence  of  mind,  and  un- 
impassioned  action.  With  the  other  he  was  absorbed 
in  that  retrospection  which  is  so  common  to  crises 
like  this. 

As  they  sank,  he  remembered  that  he  had  a  com- 
mon case-knife  in  his  pocket ;  and,  though  he  was 
fast  losing  strength,  he  managed  to  get  it  out,  and 
cut  away  the  clothing  in  Vedder's  grasp.  In  a  mo- 
ment more  he  had  risen  to  the  surface,  free.  With 
one  long  inspiration  of  the  pure  air,  and  a  glance  at 
his  whereabouts,  he  dove  for  Vedder,  but  in  doing  so 
struck  an  unseen  rock.  Stunned,  bewildered,  but 
half-conscious,  he  tried  to  grapple  for  his  late  com- 
panion. He  had  a  frantic  desire  now  to  save  him  :  it 
seemed  to  him  an  awful  necessity,  that  he  must  do 
it  or  be  guilty  of  his  death  ;  and  again  he  struggled 
and  sought,  but  all  in  vain.  Nothing  but  mud  and 
pebbles  met  his  touch  ;  and  with  a  weary,  hopeless 
prostration  he  let  himself  go,  thick  darkness  shut- 
ting him  out  of  life  and  light  and  happiness. 


ASPIRATIONS.  251 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

On  the  second  floor  of  one  of  those  cheap  and  con- 
venient London  lodging-houses,  in  a  room  which  is 
but  sparely  furnished,  sits  Miss  Alden,  knitting.  Her 
face  looks  worn  and  anxious,  and  she  seems  to  be 
impatient  for  the  coming  of  some  one  for  whom  she 
is  waiting,  as  she  turns  towards  the  door  whenever 
a  passing  vehicle  jars  its  loosely  hung  hinges.  But 
she  has  not  long  to  wait,  as  the  small  travelling  clock 
has  hardly  struck  six  when  Grace  enters  alone.  She 
is  tired  and  agitated,  and  falls  listlessly  into  a  seat  as 
her  aunt's  knitting  stops,  and  a  scrutinizing  glance 
asks  as  plainly  as  words  for  information.  But  Grace 
apparently  forgets  her  aunt's  presence :  she  leans 
wearily  back,  takes  off  her  gloves,  pushes  the  hair 
from  her  temples,  and  seems  lost  in  thought. 

"  Well,  was  your  walk  pleasant } "  queries  Miss 
Alden. 

Grace  starts,  and  says,  "  Oh,  yes,  about  as  usual ! " 

*'Why  did  not  Mr.  Barclay  come  for  his  cup  of 
tea  ? " 

"  He  has  friends  at  his  hotel,  he  wanted  to  meet  " 
—  And  Grace  falters  under  the  still  keen  and  scru- 
tinizing glance. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  }  " 

"  How,  when,  where  1 "  vaguely  asks  Grace. 


252  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

**  Between  you  two,"  comes  out  the  frank  reply. 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  Aunt  Althea  ?  What  should, 
what  could  happen  ?  " 

"  Much,"  is  the  brief  answer. 

Grace  looks  up,  and  meets  the  same  unswerving 
glance.  Her  aunt  is  quite  well  now,  but  her  tem- 
per is  less  under  control  than  it  used  to  be.  They 
are  waiting  for  the  rather  tardy  bride  and  groom,  who 
have  staid  in  the  lake  region  half  the  summer,  and 
they  are  expecting  to  return  with  them  to  America; 
and,  meanwhile,  the  translating  of  which  I  have  spoken 
has  been  completed. 

"  You  are  keeping  something  from  me,  Grace,"  re- 
sumes her  aunt. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  .? " 

"  From  your  manner.  You  know  very  well  what 
I  expect  to  hear." 

"  Is  it  not  quite  natural  that  I  should  dislike  to 
disappoint  you } " 

"Grace  ! "  almost  screams  her  aunt,  "  have  you  re- 
fused Mr.  Barclay.?" 

"  I  have,"  comes  resolutely  but  painfully  forth  from 
the  girl's  compressed  lips. 

"  I  will  not  believe  it,"  says  her  aunt,  rising  and 
coming  towards  her:  "you  are  not  such  an  utter 
fool."  She  even  puts  her  hand  on  her  niece's  shoul- 
der, as  if  to  see  whether  she  is  really  in  the  flesh  and 
speaking  sense. 

"  I  am  quite  what  you  call  me,  if  doing  as  I  have 
determines  it,"  Grace  answers. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! "  moans  Miss  Alden,  "  you  surely 
do  not  know  your  own  mind ;  you  cannot  justify  this 


ASPIRATIONS.  253 

in  any  one  way.  Why,  I  thought  you  had  entirely 
forgotten  that  wretched  creature  who  was  so  base, 
so  dishonorable  !  It  is  positively  weak  and  wicked  in 
you,  Grace,  to  cling  to  him  :  he  may  be  married  by 
this  time.     I  hope  he  is." 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  is  the  quiet  response. 

**  What  t  do  you  know  what  you  say  ?  Are  you  in 
your  right  mind  ?  " 

"  I  trust  so,  aunt." 

"  Then  what  under  the  sun  has  made  you  act  thus } 
I  have  been  hoping  so  much  that  every  thing  was 
working  around  to  the  desirable  conclusion  I  had 
promised  myself.  It  has  been  evident  enough  that 
you  two  were  absorbed  in  each  other,  and  I  did  think 
you  were  becoming  rational  enough  to  look  at  life  in 
a  common-sense  way.  Where  would  you  find  a  man 
to  be  a  truer  friend  than  Mr.  Barclay  ? " 

"Nowhere,"  Grace  says,  in  that  same  wearied,  quiet, 
acquiescent  tone  which  so  irritates  her  aunt. 

*'  Then  why  don't  you  explain  t  " 

"  I  cannot  hope  to,  aunt :  you  and  I  have  never 
quite  understood  each  other." 

"Oh,  I  beg  to  differ,"  says  Miss  Alden  impatiently. 
"  I  have  always  understood  you  as  being  unpractical 
and  unwise  in  the  extreme,  led  by  your  feelings 
rather  than  by  your  judgment." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  again  feplies  the  girl,  wondering  if 
it  would  do  any  good  to  tell  her  aunt  that  she  too 
has  a  very  well-defined  opinion  as  to  her  relative's 
lack  of  sympathy. 

"  But  I  never  supposed  you  were  quite  such  a  fool 
as  this,"  continues  Miss  Alden. 


254  ASPIRATIONS. 

Grace  does  not  seem  to  care  in  the  least  for  her 
aunt's  reproaches,  which  sting  the  more. 

"  It  is  so  ungrateful  of  you,  besides,  to  refuse  a  man 
twice  your  age,  —  one  who  has  done  so  much  for  us, 
who  is  so  chivalric,  so  kind,"  —  Miss  Alden  is  now 
weeping —  "one  whom  I  have  known  and  respected 
so  long,  and  he  too  so  long  devoted  to  the  memory 
of  his  first  wife,  who  was  a  lovely  woman,  an  angel 
indeed." 

Grace  winces. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  continues  Miss  Alden, 
who  suddenly  dries  her  tears  and  bluntly  queries, 
"Are  you  in  love  with  any  one  else } " 

But  Grace  rises  now,  and  her  listlessness  is  ex- 
changed for  a  dash  of  her  old  spirit  and  fire. 

"  That  is  my  affair,  if  you  please,  aunt ;  and  do  let 
us  cease  this  useless  discussion.  Mr.  Barclay  has 
asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  have  declined  the 
honor :  that  is  all." 

**  Indeed,  it  is  not  all.  How  are  we  to  live  ?  What 
will  you  do  1     You  forget  our  humiliating  position." 

"  I  forget  nothing,"  says  Grace  proudly,  wearied 
with  conflicting  emotions  within  and  without.  "  Help- 
less as  I  am,  unfitted  as  I  am  for  my  own  mainte- 
nance, I  would  rather  die  than  marry  any  one  simply 
for  a  support." 

The  girl  spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  and 
dignity,  that  for  a  moment  her  aunt  was  subdued, 
but  her  old  habits  of  thought  regained  the  ascend- 
ency. 

"Ah,  that  is  all  very  well  in  theory,  but  not  in 
practice ! " 


ASPIRATIONS,  255 

"  I  hope  I  may  live  long  enough  to  prove  its  truth 
in  both,"  responded  Grace,  leaving  the  room. 

When  she  returned,  her  eyes  were  red  with  weep- 
ing ;  but  the  housemaid  was  bringing  in  the  tea,  and 
she  sat  herself  down  to  pour  it  out.  The  postman's 
whistle  was  heard  soon  after,  and  the  letters  for  a 
while  served  to  divert  Mies  Alden's  attention.  But 
she  returned  to  the  charge  immediately  after,  for  one 
of  the  envelopes  contained  a  brief  and  hurried  note 
from  Mr.  Barclay,  bidding  her  good-by,  and  telling 
her  that  he  had  left  a  sufficient  sum  at  his  banker's 
at  her  disposal  until  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Potter's  return, 
when  he  supposed  some  other  and  more  permanent 
arrangement  for  her  comfort  could  be  decided  upon. 
There  was  no  allusion  to  Grace,  and  no  intimation  of 
where  he  was  going,  and  she  read  it  in  blank  despair. 

But  it  was  useless  to  question  Grace.  The  girl's 
reticence  was  complete ;  and,  though  she  was  evi- 
dently unhappy,  she  showed  a  self-command  which 
Miss  Alden  could  not  but  admire. 

The  next  day  Grace  was  gone  for  so  long  a  time 
that  again  her  aunt  was  on  the  tip-toe  of  expectation. 
It  was  very  wearisome  for  this  once  active  woman  to 
sit  alone  in  the  dull  lodging-house,  pondering  her 
unhappy  fate,  her  disappointments,  her  misfortune. 
Set  aside  from  all  the  busy  currents  of  a  world  that 
she  had  so  long  enjoyed,  and  to  know  that  all  her  in- 
fluence with  her  nieces  had  been  as  naught,  it  was 
more  than  wearisome.  And  yet,  so  strangely  do  we 
all  adapt  oui  selves  to  an  altered  course,  that  she 
gazed  from  her  window  with  a  languid  interest  in  the 
children  playing  in  the  street,  and  found  herself  won- 


256  AS  FIR  A  TIONS. 

dering  what  would  be  the  next  scene  in  their  domes- 
tic drama. 

"  Here  I  am  at  last,"  cried  Grace,  entering  with 
her  arms  full  of  bundles,  assuming  a  gayety  she  did 
not  feel,  and  striving  to  amuse  her  very  much  vexed 
and  injured  companion,  who  had  been  silent  and  dis- 
traite in  her  presence  since  the  evening  previous. 
"  Here  I  am,  and  you  cannot  guess  what  I  have  here, 
or  whom  I  have  met ! " 

Miss  Alden  made  no  response.  She  had  not  been 
nursing  her  wrath  in  all  these  long,  silent  hours  for 
nothing,  nor  was  she  to  be  easily  appeased.  Grace 
tossed  her  bundles  on  the  table,  saying,  — 

"  I  was  looking  for  the  office  of  the  Decorative 
Art  Society,  when  my  good  genius  led  me  to  inquire 
for  the  Duchess  of  Stickingham.  A  pompous  old 
butler  nearly  annihilated  me  for  supposing  her  to  be 
in  town  so  late  in  the  season.  But  when  I  assured 
him  that  I  knew  she  did  occasionally  come  to  town, 
and  that  she  would  very  much  regret  not  meeting  an 
American  friend,  he  yielded  to  my  persuasions,  let 
me  in,  and  actually  brought  me  wine  and  biscuits  in  a 
grand,  old  library,  which  was  dim  and  dark  and  mys- 
terious as  any  haunted  chamber.  Of  course  I  had  to 
wait  and  wait,  but  I  knew  the  duchess  would  come ; 
for  she  had  told  me  in  Florence  that  she  made  it  a 
point  to  be  in  the  city  on  Tuesdays  if  she  were  near 
enough  to  do  so.  And  at  last  she  came,  was  as 
sweet  and  kind  and  interested  as  if  we  had  always 
known  each  other.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  me,  for 
I  knew  the  old  butler  had  been  nervous  about  admit- 
ting me,  and  had  kept  strict  guard  on  my  movements ; 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  2Sy 

giving  me  the  slight  refreshment  as  much  for  an  ex- 
cuse to  be  in  and  out  of  the  room,  as  for  my  comfort. 
Well,  the  short  and  long  of  it  is,  that  I  can  get  all 
the  work  I  want ;  and  here  are  crewels  and  silks  and 
canvas  enough  to  keep  me  busy  till  May  comes,  and 
long  after,  if  you  prefer  London  to  New  York." 

Grace  stopped  for  want  of  breath.  Her  aunt  drew 
herself  up  in  a  stiffly  dignified  and  disdainful  manner. 

"  It  is  bad  enough  that  we  are  paupers,  without 
making  the  world  aware  of  it.  I  cannot  commend 
this  sort  of  beggary." 

Grace  did  not  retort :  she  knew  that  her  aunt  was 
smarting  under  a  sense  of  injury;  but  she  was  hurt 
too,  and  could  not  trust  herself  to  argue.  She  took 
off  her  hat,  opened  her  work-basket,  and  began  to 
embroider.  But  it  was  difficult  not  to  let  the  tears 
impearl  the  design.  The  false  view  her  aunt  took 
of  her  honest  effort  to  be  independent  and  self-sus- 
taining did  not  encourage  her  to  make  the  explana- 
tion she  knew  was  due  to  her  relative.  And  other 
reasons  also  made  that  difficult.  She  was  not  sure 
that  she  could  ably  defend  the  attitude  she  had 
assumed  towards  Mr.  Barclay.  Sometimes  she  re- 
proached herself  as  bitterly  as  her  aunt  could  do ;  and 
then,  again,  she  neither  repented  nor  was  willing 
to  have  any  one  suppose  that  she  did. 

The  hours  seemed  to  drag  themselves  along.  Her 
work  was  difficult,  for  she  had  the  disadvantage  of 
inexperience  to  contend  with,  although  she  had  been 
well  supplied  with  patterns,  and  received  many  useful 
hints  ;  but  these  were  not  equal  to  the  practised  skill 
required.     To  be  sure,  the  duchess  had  given  her  the 


258  ASPIRATIONS, 

privilege  of  instruction  in  the  classes  at  the  Kensing- 
ton school ;  but  she  was  at  so  great  a  distance,  and 
would  be  so  obliged  to  leave  her  aunt  alone,  that  she 
could  but  infrequently  avail  herself  of  these  opportu- 
nities. 

It  was  a  dreary  time,  but  she  worked  on  coura- 
geously; although  the  bitter  feeling  that  she  was 
misunderstood,  and  under  her  aunt's  displeasure,  was 
not  cheering. 

Miss  Alden^s  correspondence  seemed  to  have 
wonderfully  increased.  She  spent  hours  at  her  little 
table  with  pen  and  ink,  and  seemed  so  absorbed  that 
Grace  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  it.  She  had 
always  held  a  ready  pen,  but  as  soon  as  her  reverses 
overwhelmed  her  had  declared  her  intention  of  cut- 
ting loose  from  society,  and  had  left  all  her  letters 
unanswered. 

One  day  she  looked  up  at  Grace  with  a  quizzical 
smile  and  a  trace  of  her  old  good-humor,  saying,  — 

"  How  much  will  you  get  for  that  piece  of  work, 
child.?" 

Her  niece  had  become  so  used  to  her  indifference 
in  this  direction,  that,  for  a  minute  or  two,  she  was 
at  a  loss  how  to  account  for  so  unusual  a  remark ; 
and  she  was  slow  in  answering. 

"About  twenty  shillings,  I  suppose;  nearly  five 
dollars,  you  know." 

"  Humph  !  that's  little  enough." 

"Yes;  but  you  see,"  Grace  went  on  to  explain, 
"  I  will  do  better  after  a  while.  They  can't  pay  me 
quite  as  much  as  my  time  is  worth  yet ;"  and  then, 
seeing   the   undiminished   look   of   interest   on   her 


ASPIRATIONS.  259 

aunt*s  countenance,  she  proceeded  at' further  length. 
*'  My  next  order  will  bring  me  more,  as  it  is  for  mark- 
ing house-linen  for  the  duchess ;  and  such  lovely  linen 
as  it  is,  too,  —  heavy  as  satin  damask,  and  so  fine. 
Ah !  it  is  a  nice  thing  to  be  able  to  possess  beautiful  '* 
—  But  here  she  stopped,  checking  her  sudden  flow 
of  confidence  as  she  saw  her  aunt's  brow  darkening. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Grace,  don't  remind  me  of 
that  absurd  freak  of  yours  in  going  to  the  duchess. 
She  doubtless  looks  upon  you  as  a  polite  species  of 
beggar,  or  a  representative  of  American  audacity." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  She  is  large-minded 
enough  to  respect  the  wish  to  make  one's  industry 
remunerative ;  indeed,  she  told  me  very  kindly  that 
she  admired  the  step  I  had  taken." 

"Polite  humbug!  You  know  well  enough  she 
wouldn't  put  you  on  her  visiting-list." 

"  I  really  don't  know.  It  would,  of  course,  be  a 
mere  form  if  she  did,  when  all  my  time  must  be  given 
to  turning  an  honest  penny.  Poor  people  have  no 
leisure  for  visits ;  it  is  one  of  the  hardships  of  their 
life.  But,  either  way,  the  duchess  is  no  sham,  and 
she  shows  her  honest  interest  in  working  women." 

"  Working-women  ! "  repeated  Miss  Alden  scorn- 
fully.    "  Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  what  we  are." 

"  It  is  good  Saxon,  I  believe,"  said  Grace,  smiling, 
and  drawing  a  long  silken  thread  through  her  pretty 
fingers,  which  had  learned  to  move  more  swiftly  and 
accurately  than  she  had  ever  supposed  they  could  do ; 
"  but,  dear  aunt,  you  needn't  include  yourself,  unless 
you  propose  to  do  a  little  dressmaking,  which  I  fear 
may  soon  become  necessary." 


26o  ASPIRATIONS. 

"No  dressmaking  for  me  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Alden, 
holding  up  her  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture. 
"  I'd  scrub  first ;  and  I  may  as  well  confess  first  as 
last,  Grace,  that  I  have  earned  a  little  money."  With 
what  shy  pride  this  was  said,  and  how  painfully  Miss 
Alden  blushed  as  Grace's  merry  laugh  pealed  out ! 
She  hadn't  laughed  in  so  long  a  time  that  it  fairly 
frightened  Miss  Alden. 

"  Hush,  child,  hush !  It  is  no  laughing  matter,  I 
assure  you.  Look !  here  is  a  check  you  will  have  to 
get  cashed  for  me.  I  couldn't  endure  the  thought  of 
touching  Mr.  Barclay's  money  after  your  cruel  treat- 
ment of  him  ;  and  so  I  set  my  wits  to  work,  and  wrote 
to  several  literary  friends,  who  have  secured  me  the 
post  of  foreign  correspondent  to  a  newspaper  at 
home." 

"  You,  aunt  Althea ! " 

"  Yes  :  why  not  1 1 " 

Grace  couldn't  speak ;  her  work  had  slipped  from 
her  grasp,  her  spools  and  scissors  were  falling,  —  she 
was  completely  dumbfounded. 

With  a  curious  blending  of  pride  and  humility, 
and  an  abject  sort  of  submissiveness,  Miss  Alden, 
drumming  on  the  table  nervously  with  a  paper-cut- 
ter, went  on,  "  I  know  it  seems  absurd ;  but  what  is 
it,  after  all-,  but  relegating  to  pen  and  ink  the  power 
of  speech  with  which  we  entertain  others  .^  And 
that  I  have  done  all  my  life.  I  have  a  fund  of  expe- 
rience to  draw  upon  which  will  last  some  time.  To 
be  sure,  I  am  not  in  active  connection  with  the  usual 
sources  of  supply  of  newspaper  correspondents  ;  but 
with  the  aid  of  foreign  journals  and  reviews  I  may 


ASPIRATIONS.  261 

be  able  to  continue  to  please  "  (she  could  not  get  out 
the  word  "employers")  "my  —  ah  —  the  people  for 
whom  I  write.  And,  Grace,  I  want  you  to  see  if 
you  can  get  me  a  free  admission  to  the  Museum ;  for 
of  course,  with  the  aid  of  the  resources  of  the  British 
Museum,  I  can  make  my  letters  quite  readable." 

Grace  had  lost  much  of  her  girlish  impulsiveness, 
but  it  was  not  all  gone ;  and  she  sprang  from  her 
chair,  courtesied  profoundly  before  her  aunt's  little 
table,  and  seizing  her  hand  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

"  Grace,  don't  be  so  ridiculous !  "  said  her  aunt, 
drawing  away  her  hand,  and  giving  her  a  little  slap 
with  the  paper-cutter.  "  Sit  down  and  behave  your- 
self." 

"How  can  I.?"  exclaimed  Grace.  "Oh,  isn't  this 
richness  ! "  She  was  quoting  Mr.  Squeers,  but  Miss 
Alden  did  not  recognize  the  authority. 

"  Richness  !  No,  indeed  :  the  pay  is  hardly  better 
than  yours." 

"  It  is  a  triumph,  nevertheless,"  said  Grace,  wiping 
her  eyes,  for  she  had  laughed  till  the  tears  came ; 
"and  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart.  Let  me 
see,  the  duchess  will  be  just  the  one  to  get  me  a 
ticket  for  the  Museum." 

"  Then  I  will  do  without  it,"  promptly  replied  Miss 
Alden. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't ! "  said  Grace,  looking  out  the 
window.  "  Why,  what  is  this  ?  A  brougham,  men 
in  livery,  a  splendid  pair  of  bays  !  " 

"Do  stop  your  nonsense,"  said  Miss  Alden.  But 
that  moment  the  housemaid  handed  in  a  note,  which 
Grace  read. 


262  ASPIRATIONS, 

"  The  duchess  has  placed  her  carriage  at  our  dis- 
posal for  a  drive,  aunt :  will  you  go  ? " 

"  Are  you  quite  certain  there  is  no  error  ?  '* 

**  Quite.  It  is  a  friendly  little  note.  She  is  not 
in  town,  you  know,  and  says  she  will  take  it  kindly 
if  we  will  exercise  the  horses.  The  air  will  do  you 
good." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must,"  answered  Miss  Alden 
resignedly.     "  You  may  get  my  bonnet." 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  263 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

When  Mr.  Barclay  received  from  Grace  Alden  her 
grateful,  but  none  the  less  decided,  refusal  of  his 
offer  of  marriage,  he  was  completely  and  humiliat- 
ingly  surprised ;  as  much  so  as  a  younger  or  more 
self-confident  man  might  have  been.  He  could  not 
understand  it ;  and,  with  more  precipitation  than  was 
common  to  him,  he  rushed  off  to  the  Continent 
again,  eager  to  get  away  from  surroundings  that 
embarrassed  him.  All  his  friends  knew  that  he  had 
espoused  Miss  Alden's  cause,  and  had  been,  as  she 
said,  chivalric  in  his  kindness ;  and  he  wanted  to 
escape  from  their  inquiries.  Ruth  had  written  him 
of  her  failure  of  intention,  and  had  told  him  how  en- 
tirely she  was  satisfied  to  remain  with  Sister  Camilla 
till  he  should  command  otherwise.  She  had  no  wish 
to  do  any  thing  in  opposition  to  his  wishes,  but  she 
confessed  that  she  would  be  glad  to  assist  Sister 
Camilla  in  her  work,  and  live  for  a  while  with  some 
more  distinct  object  in  view  than  amusement  or  even 
cultivation  ;  and  he  saw  no  reason  to  refuse.  In  fact, 
he  knew  it  would  be  good  and  useful  employment. 
He  had  a  high  estimation  of  the  sisterhood  to  which 
Miss  Camilla  Deforest  belonged,  and  on  the  whole 
he  would  prefer  not  to  have  Ruth  with  him  until  he 


264  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

had  become  used  to  his  disappointment ;  for,  of 
course,  he  had  been  very  absurd,  very  ridiculous,  and 
wholly  mistaken,  just  as  Ruth  had  been,  and  it  was 
by  no  means  an  agreeable  thing  to  have  to  acknowl- 
edge it.  Yes,  Ruth  could  get  along  without  him ; 
but  how  about  this  other  young  creature,  for  whom 
he  had  conceived  so  tender  a  regard,  but  who  had 
cast  him  off,  not  disdainfully,  not  contemptuously, 
but  alas,  quite  firmly  ?  Did  she  know  her  own  mind? 
Was  it  not  possible  that  her  painful  experience  of 
one  man's  faithlessness  had  led  her  to  doubt  all  ? 
Perhaps  he  had  not  waited  long  enough  ;  he  had  been 
in  too  much  haste,  and  in  his  suddenness  had  put  an 
end  to  her  sweet  confidence  and  trust  in  him  as  an 
adviser.  Why  had  he  not  exercised  more  patience, 
and  been  better  satisfied  with  those  long,  quiet  hours 
in  which  this  girl's  true  and  tender,  though  resolute, 
nature  had  been  as  open  to  his  contemplation  as  the 
field  flowers  are  to  the  sun }  And  why,  too,  had 
never  a  doubt  that  he  would  win  her  crossed  his 
mind }  Were  girls  of  the  present  so  different  from 
those  of  the  past }  Ah,  he  had  been  too  sure,  he 
had  forgotten  his  age ! 

These  were  not  pleasant  thoughts,  and  Mr.  Bar- 
clay found  himself  quite  moody  and  morose.  He 
missed  Ruth  :  she  had  been  his  occupation,  he  had 
lived  quite  out  of  his  grief  in  her.  But  there  was  no 
desire  to  repeat  that  unsent  note.  No  one  must  ever 
know  of  that :  it  had  been  a  momentary  folly.  After 
a  while  he  would  go  home,  and  Ruth  should  return  to 
him,  and  be  the  head  of  his  house,  the  stay  of  his  old 
age.     But,  meanwhile,  what  should  he  do  with  him- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  265 

self  ?  He  was  in  Switzerland,  whither  he  had  gone 
so  hurriedly ;  and  a  letter  from  Branly  Potter,  long 
detained  because  of  his  uncertain  movements,  in- 
formed him  that  Branly,  having  received  an  excellent 
offer  in  Colorado,  was  to  sail,  with  his  wife,  the  last 
of  August,  but  that  Miss  Alden  had  decided  to  re- 
main in  England  for  the  winter.  This  puzzled  him 
still  more.  How  could  he  go  home  and  leave  Grace 
alone  with  her  aunt  in  a  foreign  city  ?  What  if  she 
had  severed  the  bond  that  held  him,  was  he  not  still 
her  friend  ?  Nettled,  vexed,  disappointed,  hurt,  he 
had  yet  enough  magnanimity  to  forget  his  own 
trouble  when  he  thought  of  hers.  Hers  was  to  be  a 
fight  with  fortune,  single-handed,  and  without  other 
weapons  than  merely  youth  and  courage.  Ah,  hers 
was  a  sad  experience  for  one  so  young  !  and  since 
Miss  Alden's  mental  disturbance  he  felt  her  to  be 
very  unreliable.  The  more  he  thought,  the  more  per- 
plexed he  became.-  He  could  not  thrust  himself 
upon  these  lonely  women  as  a  dictator,  nor  could  he 
even  open  his  purse  to  Grace  with  the  hope  that  she 
would  use  it  now :  indeed,  he  knew  she  would  not ; 
and  yet  how  was  suffering — absolute,  positive  suffer- 
ing —  to  be  averted  t 

It  was  now  the  last  of  August.  The  weather  was 
uncertain.  It  was  too  late  to  be  lingering  in  the 
mountains,  and  he  had  invitations  for  the  autumn  at 
English  country-houses.  But  Mr.  Barclay  was  no 
sportsman.  He  had  liked  to  carry  a  gun  about  with 
him  when  wandering ;  but  none  of  the  keen  zest  of 
killing,  or  the  fine  fury  of  the  chase,  ever  possessed 
him.    However,  a  man  could  do  as  he  pleased  in  those 


266  ASPIRATIONS. 

houses  which  opened  their  hospitable  doors  so  sys- 
tematically to  large  parties  of  people,  and  their  libra- 
ries fortunately  equalled  their  stables,  in  most  cases. 

So  he  concluded  to  accept  one,  at  least,  of  the 
invitations,  though  he  knew  it  would  cost  him  con- 
siderable annoyance ;  but  that  had  to  be  met  sooner 
or  later. 

As  the  train  whizzed  along  which  was  carrying 
him  to  Paris,  a  few  days  later,  he  suddenly  made  up 
his  mind  to  another  and  an  entirely  different  course. 
He  would  not  go  to  the  country ;  he  would  do  some- 
thing more  effective,  even  if  it  was  quixotic.  Staid 
and  tranquil  as  was  his  usual  demeanor,  his  eye  began 
to  flash,  and  his  cheek  to  burn,  at  the  scheme  which 
now  presented  itself.  But  of  this  scheme  it  will  not 
now  be  necessary  to  say  more  than  that  it  gave  Mr. 
Barclay  considerable  exercise  of  ingenuity.  While 
he  was  leaning  back  on  the  cushions  of  the  railway- 
carriage,  with  all  his  customary  luxurious  appoint- 
ments about  him,  he  remembered  that  he  had  not 
looked  at  a  newspaper  for  weeks,  that  in  his  absorp- 
tion he  had  even  neglected  to  write  to  Ruth,  and  that 
her  letters  had  been  few  and  far  between,  and  also  in 
one  of  her  latest  she  had  mentioned  the  intense  heat 
of  New  York  as  being  something  terrible,  worse  than 
any  thing  she  had  imagined. 

Now,  with  a  pang  of  remorse,  he  wondered  if 
she  had  been  ill ;  but  of  course  in  that  case  Miss 
Deforest  would  have  forwarded  intelligence.  No, 
Ruth  was  young  and  vigorous,  though  so  fair  and 
slender.  And  yet  he  was  a  little  uneasy,  just 
enough  so  to  make  him  wish  he  had  been  less  neg- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  267 

lectful.  Taking  up  an  Italian  journal  shortly  after, 
he  saw  the  death  of  Count  Romano,  which  set  him 
wondering  whether  the  young  American  painter 
would  change  his  mind  and  assume  the  title  and  for- 
tune that  belonged  to  him. 

Arriving  in  Paris,  he  lost  no  time  in  getting  on  to 
Calais,  and  from  thence  to  London ;  but  here,  tired 
and  travel-worn  as  he  was,  instead  of  going  to  the 
Langham,  his  usual  comfortable  resort,  he  made  a 
cabman  drive  him  to  a  little  inn  of  the  East  End 
where  nobody  who  was  anybody  ever  went ;  and,  so 
far  from  registering  at  his  banker's,  he  took  good 
care  to  avoid  it,  leaving  most  of  his  luggage  at  the 
railway-station,  and  carrying  only  what  was  barely 
necessary  for  his  immediate  wants.  But  even  at  this 
inn  he  did  not  stay  long.  Evidently  Mr.  Barclay 
was  getting  more  and  more  capricious. 


268  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

"  I  HAVE  been  here  at  least  three  weeks,  and  as  yet 
have  seen  nothing  of  the  homes  of  your  poor  people, 
Sister  Camilla.  You  make  me  too  much  of  a  guest," 
remonstrated  Ruth  one  morning,  when  the  July  sun 
was  pouring  down  torrid  beams  upon  the  blistering 
earth.  "  Every  day  you  go  and  come  on  your  errands  ; 
while  I  sit  here  in  this  cool  and  darkened  room,  doing 
nothing  worth  speaking  of.  Why  cannot  I  go  with 
you  to-day } " 

Sister  Camilla  paused  as  she  replied.  She  was 
just  going  out,  and  her  hand  was  on  the  door.  "  I 
have  feared  you  were  unequal  to  it ;  but  you  are  not 
doing  nothing  when  you  regulate  my  accounts,  and 
give  little  Dora  music-lessons,  and  look  over  my 
linen,  and  prepare  my  basket  of  supplies." 

"But  I  don't  feel  as  if  that  were  any  thing,  when 
I  see  you  going  and  coming,  night  and  day,  in  and 
out  among  those  who  are  suffering.  Let  me  go  with 
you  occasionally,  now,  —to-day,  —  as  a  beginning." 

Miss  Deforest  assented  reluctantly.  She  had  not 
wished  Ruth  to  see  all  that  she  saw,  and  was  accus- 
tomed to ;  but  Ruth's  desire  was  sincere,  and  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  reach  the  quarter  where  her 


ASPIRATIONS,  269 

ministrations  led  her.  The  poor  and  the  rich  have 
often  only  a  few  layers  of  brick  between  them,  how- 
ever wide  the  spiritual  distinction.  The  heat  made 
it  hardly  possible  for  the  aged  and  infants  to  remain 
within  doors  :  they  swarmed  on  the  door-steps,  under 
awnings,  and  wherever  air  and  shade  could  be  found. 
But  there  were  many  who  could  not  do  this ;  and 
Ruth's  heart  ached  when  they  mounted  up  rickety 
stairs  to  the  stifling  bedrooms,  where  wan  and  weary 
people  were  struggling  with  fatal  illness,  or  children, 
too  weak  to  move,  turned  their  glassy  gaze  upon  the 
visitors. 

Sister  Camilla  saw  that  Ruth  was  growing  faint 
and  pale,  and  made  her  errands  shorter  on  this  ac- 
count; but  not  until  she  had  been  a  messenger  of  aid 
and  strength  to  many.  To  one  she  gave  medicine, 
to  another  wholesome  advice,  to  all  that  needed  it 
food,  and  sometimes  money ;  but,  to  each  and  all, 
words  of  sympathy  and  hope,  which  drew  forth 
thanks,  and  occasionally  the  merest  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"  How  do  you  stand  it  1  "  said  Ruth,  as  they  turned 
their  steps  homewards.  "  It  was  too  much  for  me,  I 
confess  ;  hut  fou,  — it  is  your  life." 

"Yes,  it  is  my  life,"  said  Sister  Camilla  gravely, 
"  chosen  deliberately." 

"  It  can  never  be  mine,"  said  Ruth  hopelessly.  "  I 
am  beginning  to  think  myself  a  failure  every  way." 

"  You  must  not  do  that.  Take  it  more  patiently. 
You  are  very  young  yet." 

*'  But  is  it  not  true  that  only  women  who  have  had 
some  trouble,  some  great  sorrow  or  disappointment, 
ever  give  themselves  up  to  a  life  of  renunciation } " 


270  ASPIRA  TJONS. 

She  Spoke  as  if  thinking  aloud,  and  the  color  rushed 
to  her  face  as  she  became  conscious  that  her  com- 
panion regarded  her  with  a  quizzical  little  smile. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  she  cried.  "I  was  debating 
the  question  in  my  own  mind.  I  was  not  intending 
to  question  j^z^" 

Sister  Camilla  seized  her  little  hand,  and  squeezed  it. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  You,  like  all  the  rest 
of  the  world,  think  only  a  man  can  drive  a  woman  to 
good  works." 

"  I  did  not  put  it  that  way,"  said  Ruth,  blushing 
again. 

"  No,  but  you  mean  it.  You  think  a  lover  is  a  neces- 
sary adjunct  to  a  woman's  happiness ;  and  that,  if  he 
prove  false,  she  may  then  turn  her  attention  to  some- 
thing else  :  well,  I  admit  that  to  be  a  very  moving 
force  among  women,  and  rightly.  Nothing  is  sweeter 
and  lovelier  or  more  ennobling,  than  a  tender  and 
true  affection  ;  but  it  does  not  come  to  all.  Many  live 
and  die  without  it.  Look  at  our  professional  women, 
—  authors,  artists,  editors,  teachers,  nurses,  physi- 
cians.    Are  they  all  heart-broken  people  t  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  of  course  not ;  at  least  I  suppose  not, " 
faltered  Ruth,  who  by  this  time  had  sunk  into  a  bam- 
boo chair  in  the  little  parlor  of  the  mission-house, 
and  was  waving  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

"  You  have  started  me  on  one  my  hobbies,"  said 
Sister  Camilla,  "  and  I  will  have  to  give  you  a  little 
sketch  of  my  own  career,  by  way  of  illustration,  if  you 
care  to  hear  it." 

"  If  I  care,"  repeated  Ruth  reproachfully ;  "  you 
know  I  shall  be  delighted." 


ASPIRATIONS.  271 

"  Take  this  lemonade,  then,  and  don't  look  so  ut- 
terly dejected.  Ah,  Ruth,  that  far-away  expression 
of  your  eyes  tells  me  a  tale  ! " 

Ruth's  color  came  and  went  again. 

"  It  is  only  the  heat,"  she  said,  but  Miss  Deforest 
knew  better. 

"  No  matter,  dear,  that  will  all  come  right,  —  *  so 
he  be  brave,  so  he  be  true.'  Well,  to  go  on  about 
my  indifferent  self.  When  I  had  emerged  from  a 
very  lively  and  untrammelled  girlhood,  I  had  what 
may  be  called  a  very  keen  intuition  that  marriage 
was  not  to  be  my  portion.  I  was  not  pretty  to  begin 
with,  nor  had  I  any  other  '  attractions  '  in  the  way  of 
wealth  or  wit  ;  and,  though  I  tried  very  hard  to  be- 
lieve I  was  talented,  my  genius  never  seemed  to  be 
properly  appreciated  by  other  people." 

Ruth  laughed. 

"  Now,  that  was  the  very  hardest  thing  I  had  to 
bear,  though  I  can  laugh  with  you  about  it  easily 
enough  ;  for  no  matter  what  people  say  about  useful- 
ness, those  who  can  entertain  others  by  the  least 
show  of  any  one  talent  are  much  more  highly  re- 
garded than  the  poor  hum-drum,  useful  people." 

"  Oh  !  there  it  seems  to  me  you  must  be  mistaken," 
put  in  Ruth. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  said  her  companion  emphatically. 
"  See  what  a  fuss  is  made  over  a  good  picture  or  a 
successful  novel  if  it  is  by  a  woman.  But  who  hears 
of  the  humble  one,  she  who  in  a  quiet  home  exercises 
as  much  financial  ability  as  a  railroad  king,  and  makes 
of  that  home  a  haven  of  peace  for  some  weary  man, 
and  nurtures  his  children  for  lives  of  industry  and 


272  ASPIRATIONS. 

self-respect  ?  No  one.  But  let  a  woman  have  a 
voice  like  a  bird,  something  that  she  hardly  has  to 
make  an  effort  to  use,  —  I  don't  speak  of  the  artificial 
cultivation  of  it  demanded  novv-a-days,  —  and  her 
name  is  known  through  all  the  civilized  world.  But 
I  only  say  this  to  prove  the  truth  of  my  assertion 
about  usefulness  not  being  so  much  appreciated  as 
talent.  Well,  as  I  have  said,  here  I  was  with  youth, 
health,  strength,  no  prospect  of  marriage,  no  genius  : 
what  was  I  to  do  }  My  grandmother  died  ;  I  was  an 
orphan,  and  she  had  indulged  me  greatly.  Her  death 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  selfish  vanity  that  possessed 
me.  Could  I  not  do  something  for  somebody  t  I 
asked  myself  in  those  days  of  sorrow.  I  had  been 
indifferent  to  religious  duties ;  but  I  now  went  to 
church,  and  gradually  became  convinced  that  in  the 
faithful  performance  of  Christian  duties  there  was  a 
higher  peace  than  in  the  pursuit  of  any  pleasure.  I 
studied  nursing,  and  found  it  an  excellent  means  of 
helping  others.  One  thing  led  to  another,  and  here  I 
am,  —  heart  whole,  happy,  and  pledged,  as  you  see 
me,  to  a  life  which  is  my  choice."  She  paused,  and 
just  then  there  was  a  peal  of  thunder,  and  in  a  few 
moments  more  a  driving  shower  obliged  them  to  close 
the  windows ;  but  not  until  Ruth's  quick  ear  caught, 
above  the  sound  of  wind  and  rain,  the  hoarse  cry  of 
a  new's-boy  shouting  an  "extra."  It  jarred  upon 
the  quiet  of  the  room  and  the  even  tones  of  Sister 
Camilla's  voice,  and  they  both  listened  as  the  sound 
drew  nearer.  "  Boat-races  !  "  "  Saratoga  !  "  **  Acci- 
dent !  "  —  "  Hark  !  what  is  it }  "  said  Ruth.  ■—  "  Lives 
lost ! "   came   again    the  cry,  now  beaten   down   by 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  273 

the  blast,  and  again  rising  above  the  sweeping 
gale. 

"I  will  send  out  for  a  newspaper,"  said  Sister 
Camilla.  **  I  am  afraid  the  morning  visits  have 
been  too  much  for  you,  Ruth;  or  are  you  timid 
when  it  lightens  t  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  faltered  Ruth.  "  I  feel  oppressed, 
alarmed  ;  what  does  that  dreadful  cry  reiterate  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing  !  We  never  mind  those  sensa- 
tional things :  the  least  occurrence  serves  as  a  pre- 
text to  issue  an  'extra.'  Ah,  here  comes  Mary  with 
a  paper,  wet  with  rain  !  "  and  she  held  its  dripping 
sheet  away  from  her,  reading  aloud  as  she  did  so,  — 

"  An  accident  on  Saratoga  Lake ;  the  breaking 
down  of  a  platform  ;  men,  women,  and  children  pre- 
cipitated into  the  lake.  Daring  conduct  of  a  young 
artist.  Fears  that  his  life  may  be  lost.  Drowning  of 
Mr."  —  Sister  Camilla  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked 
at  Ruth. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  but  growing  steadily  whiter. 
"  What  are  the  names  t  " 

"There  are  only  two  mentioned,"  said  Sister 
Camilla,  putting  down  the  paper;  "no  one  that  we 
know,  probably.  At  least,  only  one  is  familiar  to 
me ;  and  you  are  ill,  and  had  better  not  look  at  the 
details." 

"  I  must,"  said  Ruth,  seizing  the  paper  and  glan- 
cing hurriedly  at  it.  "Mr.  Marsh  and  Mr.  Vedder;" 
both  names  stood  prominently  before  her  as  she 
repeated  them  aloud.  "  Which  is  drowned  }  or  are 
both  ? "  she  asked  in  a  pitiful,  beseeching  voice. 

"It  is  not  known  yet;    these  things  are  always 


274  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

exaggerated,"  said  Sister  Camilla,  in  the  way  that 
people  try  to  soften  dread  tidings. 

"I  am  so  confused,"  murmured  Ruth.  "There 
must  be  some  mistake :  he  was  to  return  to  Italy. 
Perhaps  it  is  some  one  else." 

"  Yes,  perhaps,"  said  Sister  Camilla,  equally  con- 
fused, for  she  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Marsh ;  and, 
though  Ruth  had  spoken  of  Charley  Vedder,  she 
could  not  imagine  that  any  thing  happening  to  him 
would  cause  quite  such  intensity  of  anguish  as  was 
now  apparent.  But  she  had  no  time  to  consider,  for 
Ruth  was  falling  unconscious  beside  her,  as  white  as 
her  dress,  and  as  motionless. 

The  storm  had  subsided  when  the  young  girl  had 
recovered  sufficiently  to  be  carried  to  her  room,  but 
she  looked  as  did  the  flowers  in  the  garden  when  the 
gale  was  over.  She  tried  to  rise,  but  her  strength  was 
gone ;  and  all  the  long  hours  of  the  night  were  spent 
in  a  wakefulness  which  alarmed  Sister  Camilla.  She 
could  not  close  her  eyes  without  visions  of  terror  and 
pain ;  and  the  faces  of  the  old  and  young  she  had 
seen  the  day  before  were  confused  with  those  of  her 
former  companions. 

"  I  must  go  to  Mrs.  Vedder,"  she  said  to  Sister 
Camilla,  after  a  day  or  two  spent  in  this  silent,  pros- 
trate way. 

"  It  is  impossible  ! "  was  the  answer.  "  Besides, 
she  has  left  Saratoga." 

"  You  have  heard  from  her } " 

"  I  telegraphed  for  information." 

**  Please  tell  me  all,"  urged  Ruth. 

Sister  Camilla  looked  steadily  at  her  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  said,  — 


ASPIRATIONS,  275 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you ;  for  suspense  is  always  harder 
to  bear  than  definite  news,  however  ill  they  may  be. 
Charley  Vedder  was  drowned.  Mrs.  Vedder  was 
taken  home  by  Mr.  Boggs.  The  accident  was  not 
as  severe  as  at  first  supposed,  for  his  was  the  only 
life  lost ;  the  other  people  were  more  or  less  injured.'* 

To  her  surprise  Ruth  simply  said,  "Thank  God!" 
and  turned  away  her  face. 

"  Surely  you  do  not  thank  God  that  the  man's  life 
was  lost,"  said  Sister  Camilla  in  her  bewilderment. 

Ruth  shuddered  and  grasped  her  hand ;  with  a 
burst  of  tears  she  sobbed,  — 

"I  did  not  think  of  him  —  forgive  me  —  I  had  for- 
gotten him.  I  was  so  grateful  —  that  no  one  else  " 
—    She  stopped  convulsively. 

"  No  one  else  !  "  repeated  Sister  Camilla  thought- 
fully.    "Were  you  interested  in  any  one  else  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruth  between  her  sobs.  "  But  I  am 
so  sorry  for  poor  Mrs.  Vedder.  Poor,  poor  aunt 
Abby,  whose  heart  must  be  broken  !  And  now  I  can 
do  her  no  worse  harm  than  to  let  her  see  me.  She 
will  never  forgive  me." 

Sister  Camilla,  like  a  wise  woman,  forbore  ques- 
tions. It  was  much  of  an  emigma  to  her ;  but  she 
knew  that  this  outburst  of  violent  grief  was  better 
than  the  quiet,  pent-up  stillness  and  suffering  of  the 
last  few  days.  Ruth  sobbed  till  exhaustion  and  sleep 
followed;  and,  when  this  phase  of  her  illness  was 
reached.  Sister  Camilla  knew  that  recovery  would 
follow. 

She  was  not  mistaken.  Ruth  slept  like  a  tired 
child,  —  once  in  a  while  sighing  softly,  and  waking  to 


2/6  ASPIRATIONS. 

weep;  but  re-assured  at  finding  the  calm,  tranquil 
face  of  Sister  Camilla  beside  her,  or  bending  with  a 
motherly  tenderness  to  offer  the  nourishment  of  beef- 
tea  or  jelly. 

"  I  do  not  deserve  this,"  she  said  once,  after  an  ice 
had  been  given  her.  "  Your  poor  people  should  have 
these  good  things,  and  you  ;  but  not  I  who  have 
proved  my  weakness  and  miserable  insufficiency." 

"  Tut,  tut ;  none  of  us  are  of  brass  or  iron,  child. 
And  you  have  not  had  a  mother's  nurture ;  any  one 
can  see  that  at  a  glance,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Sister  Camilla } "  asked  Ruth, 
brightening  a  little. 

"Just  that,  my  dear,"  said  the  sister  roguishly. 
'*  Men  are  very  good  in  their  way,  but  not  at  bringing 
up  young  women.  How  little  Mr.  Barclay  knows  of 
girls,  is  proved  by  you.  Why,  he  hasn't  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  but  that  you  are  as  giddy  and  gay  at  this 
moment  as  the  flies  that  are  whirling  in  the  sunshine !  '* 

"He  knows  I  am  with  you,"  said  Ruth,  remon- 
strating. 

Sister  Camilla  laughed.  "I  accept  the  implied 
trust,  but  all  the  same  consider  myself  justified  in  my 
assertion.  What  mother  would  have  left  a  tender 
young  creature  like  you  to  meet  such  possibilities 
and  probabilities  as  you  have  done }  Ah,  it  was  like 
a  man ! " 

"  Now,  Sister  Camilla,  you  shall  not  abuse  Mr.  Bar- 
clay :  he  is  the  dearest,  kindest  of  men,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Of  course ;  but  he  went  out  of  his  sphere  in  un- 
dertaking your  education  and  bringing  up." 

Ruth  saw  by  the  twinkle  in  Sister  Camilla's  eye 


ASPIRATIONS,  277 

that  she  wanted  a  tilt ;  but  again  the  heavy  weariness 
of  sadness  overcame  her,  and  she  answered  faintly,  — 

*'  He  could  not  have  saved  me  this." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  could  !  "  said  the  sister,  "  at  least  in  a 
measure.  *  Make  doors  upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it 
will  out  of  the  window;  shut  that,  'twill  out  at  the 
key-hole  ;  close  that,  and  it  will  fly  with  the  smoke 
from  the  chimney.*  That  means  we  are  good  at  con- 
triving and  baffling  destiny,  which  men  are  not.  But 
now  tell  me  where  would  you  most  like  to  go,  —  to 
the  mountains  or  the  sea  .'* " 

"Oh,  to  neither!" 

"Now,  that  is  selfish,  my  dear:  you  cannot  get 
strong  in  this  hot  city." 

"  Well,  what  does  it  matter  ?     I  am  of  no  use." 

"  No,  I  know  it ;  but  you  can  be  by  getting  well." 

"To  whom .?" 

"To  me,  to  yourself,  to  Mr.  Barclay,  and  perhaps 
to  some  one  else  in  the  vague,  indefinite  future." 

Ruth  turned  away. 

"  I  am  quite  in  earnest,"  proceeded  Sister  Camilla. 
"  Some  of  my  poor  people  are  going  away,  thanks  to 
the  '  Fresh-air  fund ; '  the  rest  are  to  be  under  the 
care  of  Sister  Anne  till  I  return  :  for  I  must  have  an 
outing,  you  know." 

"Ah,  if  it  is  for  you,  I  will  go  anywhere!"  re- 
sponded Ruth. 

"  Well,  it  is  for  me  as  well  as  for  you :  change  is 
absolutely  necessary.    Where  would  you  rather  go  ? " 

Ruth  was  still  a  moment.  Her  thoughts  flew  back 
to  the  childish  pleasures  of  days  spent  with  May  and 
Grace  Alden  after  her  father's  death  ;   she  remem- 


27S  ASPIRATIONS. 

bered  the  glittering  sands,  the  light-house,  the  long 
roll  of  the  waves,  the  rocks,  the  salt  smell  of  marshy- 
land  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  breath  of  that  air  would 
indeed  put  new  life  in  her. 

"To  the  sea,"  she  said. 

"And  so  be  it,"  answered  Sister  Camilla.  And 
then  she  put  a  package  of  letters  before  Ruth,  —  one 
from  Scotland,  one  from  London,  and  one  from  the 
Engadine. 

Ruth  turned  them  over.  "  Are  these  all  ? "  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  all." 

Ruth  sighed. 


ASPIRATIONS,  279 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Here  stands  the  old  brown  house  which  has  been 
looking  out  to  sea  these  long,  long  years,  in  the  face 
of  fogs  and  driving  storms,  over  the  glittering  sands, 
out  to  the  line  where  sky  and  ocean  meet,  waiting  for 
the  ship  to  come  in  which  shall  bring  to  it  life  and 
happiness.  It  looks  no  older,  no  more  weather-worn, 
than  it  used  to  look  when  a  merry  boy  went  whistling 
through  its  doors,  or  old  Abner  Marsh  sat  in  the  sun- 
shine mending  his  nets ;  and  it  seems  still  to  be  a 
picturesque  part  of  the  land  or  water  scape.  Its 
doors  and  windows  rattle  at  the  passing  gust,  and 
here  and  there  it  has  been  propped  or  strengthened 
by  a  heavy  beam,  which,  with  a  little  red  paint  and  a 
few  tiles,  are  all  its  modern  improvements.  But  its 
ship  has  come  in,  —  as  our  ships  so  often  do,  without 
our  knowing  it.  For  from  the  chimney  curls  a  thin 
thread  of  blue  smoke,  and  in  the  sitting-room  is  the 
customary  litter  of  an  artist's  working-room.  No 
frescoes  and  dadoes  here,  no  brasses  and  bronzes 
and  tapestries,  to  delight  the  artistic  eye  ;  nothing 
but  an  easel,  some  mahl-sticks,  sketches,  stretchers, 
and  canvas.  The  floor  is  still  one  of  bare  boards ; 
but  the  open  shutters  of  the  windows  let  in  the  sun- 
shine and  the  broad  sweep  of  the  distant  sea,  which 


280  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

is  SO  much  rest  to  the  eye,  so  suggestive  to  the 
mind. 

It  is  meant  to  be  a  place  for  work,  and  not  one  of 
ease  or  amusement  ;  but  its  owner  touches  neither 
paint  nor  pencil.  He  is  recovering  from  something 
worse  than  illness, — a  fit  of  disdain,  of  bitter  self- 
reproach,  of  dissatisfaction  with  all  the  world.  Why- 
had  he  not  staid  always  in  this  little  old  brown  house 
and  been  contented  t  Why  had  fame  or  fortune 
tempted  him,  and  what  had  they  brought  him  that 
he  should  have  been  lured  to  listen  for  a  moment  to 
their  siren  voices  .-*  Never  again  would  he  swerve 
from  his  allegiance  to  art.  And  then  that  horrid  day 
at  Saratoga  hung  still  like  a  black  cloud  between 
him  and  his  brightest  dreams. 

He  had  been  rescued  by  a  boat,  when  so  far  ex- 
hausted by  the  blow  on  his  head,  and  his  efforts  to 
evade  the  clutch  of  a  drowning  man,  that  it  had  been 
several  days  before  he  could  rush  from  the  scene  of 
horror  to  the  quiet  of  the  one  spot  on  the  earth  which 
had  for  him  no  painful  suggestions.  For  with  his 
recollections  of  Italy  came  the  remembrance  of  Ruth  ; 
and  she  to  whom  he  had  poured  out  his  story  in  page 
after  page  of  burning  words,  she  to  whom  he  had  left 
his  fate,  the  decision  of  his  career,  the  choice  of  a 
titled  name,  had  disdained  even  to  reply. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  his  work  stands  undone, 
and  that  the  days  crawl  on  in  their  slow  length,  leav- 
ing him  to  his  lethargy. 

The  visitors  at  the  Neck  have  all  gone,  the  houses 
are  closed,  the  sands  are  deserted.  The  days  are 
getting  shorter,  the  gales  are  begirining.     So  Lillo 


ASPIRATIONS.  281 

now  ventures  abroad.  He  has  become  thin  and  worn 
and  haggard  from  so  much  thought  and  so  Httle 
exercise.  He  stops  a  little,  as  with  his  oars  and  fish- 
ing-lines he  makes  his  way  to  a  boat ;  but  he  has 
resolved  to  shake  off  this  deadly  oppression,  and  be 
himself  again. 

If  he  could  have  saved  that  miserable  life,  which 
had  been  almost  in  his  hands,  he  would  have  been 
better  satisfied.  Often  that  despairing,  dreadful 
glance  comes  to  him ;  and  often  his  own  hateful  wish 
for  revenge,  rises  like  a  ghost  in  his  memory.  And 
how  wasted  was  all  that  passion  !  spent  on  a  girl  who 
had  given  him  one  or  two  tender  smiles,  who  had 
made  him  the  whim  of  the  moment.  Was  she,  in- 
deed, so  fair  and  false  as  to  wilfully  deceive  him  ?  or 
had  he  been  so  weakly  presumptuous  and  mistaken  ? 
He  knew  little  of  women ;  they  were  more  or  less 
mysteries  to  him,  as  they  are  to  so  many  men.  But 
if  she  had  cared  ever  so  little,  would  she  not  have 
answered  his  letter }  Where  was  her  grace  ?  where 
her  courtesy  ?  Could  the  letter  have  miscarried  } 
Not  likely  ;  but,  whether  it  had  or  not,  he  should 
never  know.  For,  of  course,  she  would  be  Mrs.  Bar- 
clay some  time  or  other ;  that  was  more  than  likely, 
as  the  miserable  scribbler  had  insinuated.  It  must 
have  been  apparent  to  everybody  but  himself.  And 
what  a  dreadful  waste  of  time  was  all  this  question- 
ing, surmising,  and  useless,  vain  speculation  !  So  he 
fights  his  despondency,  and  goes  out  to  wage  war 
with  the  elements. 

It  is  a  bleak,  wild  day,  and  he  notes  the  white 
curling  foam  of  the  breakers  tossing  high  against  the 


282  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

rocks.  Nature  is  unsympathetic  only  to  those  who 
do  not  love  her.  For  those  who  do,  she  has  always 
an  undertone  that  responds  to  the  mood  one  is  in. 
The  sun  may  shine  UDon  one's  sorrow,  but  it  does 
not  gladden :  it  is  only  the  smiling  mask  which 
makes  the  world  believe  that  death  and  decay  are  for- 
gotten. The  gray  sky,  the  tossing  waves,  the  gloom, 
were  in  keeping  with  Lillo's  turn  of  thought ;  and  it 
was  with  keen  desire  for  a  contest  that  he  loosened 
his  boat,  and  sent  her  flying.  At  least,  the  air  of 
heaven  was  his,  and  its  saltness  gave  him  strength. 
His  good  right  arm  had  power  to  breast  the  waves. 
And  what  better  life  need  a  man  ask  than  this  wild 
freedom  t  Perish  dreams  !  Let  them  fade,  —  given 
this  strong  actuality  of  life  and  force. 

But,  as  he  pulled  valiantly  against  the  strong  cur- 
rent, new  thoughts  came  to  him.  Ruth  had  been 
his  personification  of  all  that  was  lovely  in  woman- 
hood. Why  should  he  forget  her  because  of  her 
apparent  disdain  .-*  He  became  convinced  that  he 
had  erred.  She  was  as  true,  as  gentle,  as  perfect  and 
fair  a  flower  as  ever,  whether  she  loved  him  or  not ; 
and  he  vowed  that  nothing  should  expel  her  image. 
To  be  more  worthy  of  her,  more  capable  of  trusting 
her,  and  so  of  trusting  all  women,  was  the  higher 
and  nobler  way  of  solving  his  difficulties.  It  was 
puerile  to  be  jealous  and  doubting.  Time  would  yet 
give  him  the  opportunity  to  make  all  clear  between 
them.  And,  meanwhile,  he  would  work.  The  resolve 
brightened  his  mental  horizon ;  but,  around  and  about 
him,  sky  and  sea  were  uniting  towards  denser  gloom. 

He   had   gone   farther   than   he   knew,   and   Seal 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  283 

Island  was  before  him.  It  was  a  barren  little  spot 
still,  with  only  its  few  shrubs  and  a  hut  which  served 
as  a  shelter  for  fishermen  ;  and,  as  he  guided  his  craft 
among  its  rocks,  he  was  surprised  to  see  another 
small  boat  drawn  upon  its  beach,  for  the  fog  was 
rolling  in,  and  to  any  one  unaccustomed  to  these 
waters,  a  return  to  the  mainland  would  be  a  difficult, 
if  not  a  dangerous,  thing.  To  warn  any  unwary  trav- 
eller seemed  to  be  only  ordinary  civility,  for  the 
boat  was  one  of  the  sort  hired  by  guests.  So  Lillo 
shouted,  "boat  ahoy!"  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  For 
a  while  there  was  no  answer ;  but  presently  from  a 
far  corner  came  a  slim,  straight,  black-robed  figure, 
more  like  a  Florentine  nun  than  a  Codtown  visitor. 
In  her  hand  was  a  book,  and  on  her  head  was  a 
small  poke-bonnet,  and  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her 
near-sighted  reading,  and  slow  strolling,  that  she 
neither  heard  nor  saw  what  was  before  her.  Lillo 
moored  his  boat,  sprang  from  it,  and,  with  accus- 
tomed grace,  doffed  his  cap,  and  stood  in  her  path 
before  she  discovered  him.  Then  with  a  startled 
smile  she  closed  her  book,  and  gave  him  a  calm  and 
cool  salutation. 

"Are  you  aware,  madam,'*  said  he,  "that  it  is 
already  hardly  possible  for  you  to  return  to  the  main- 
land ?  And  may  I  ask  who  has  been  so  stupid  as  to 
bring  you  here  such  a  day  } " 

"You  may  ask,  but  I  am  not  certain  that  I  shall 
answer,"  said  the  lady;  "seeing  that  it  will  oblige 
me  to  exonerate  all  the  men  at  the  Neck,  who 
warned  me  of  my  foolishness.  But,  really,"  and  she 
glanced  hastily  at  the  forbidding  sky,  "I    had   not 


284  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

been  aware  that  the  fog  was  driving  in  at  this  rate, 
I  was  so  interested  in  my  book ;  but  this  is  bad,  isn't 
it  ? "  and  she  turned  towards  the  path  which  led  to 
the  hut,  as  if  to  get  something  she  had  left  there. 

"Pardon  me,  if  you  are  alone,  pray  get  into  my 
boat  at  once,  and  I  will  take  you  back.  Is  it  possible 
you  rowed  here  by  yourself?     Few  ladies  attempt  it." 

"Ah,  that  is  just  what  made  me  try  it.  But  I  am 
not  alone.     Could  you  manage  to  carry  two  of  us  .-* " 

"  If  you  are  quick,"  answered  Lillo,  going  back  to 
where  his  craft  was  now  tossing  restlessly.  "A  bad 
bargain,"  he  muttered,  as  he  peered  into  the  thick- 
ening distance.  "  Just  like  a  woman  !  I've  half  a 
mind  to  make  her  stay  where  she  is,  as  a  lesson." 

He  bent  to  loosen  the  knot  which  secured  the  other 
boat,  but  decided  that  it  would  be  better  not  to 
strive  to  manage  a  tow,  and  re-tied  it  again ;  when  a 
hand  was  laid  lightly  on  his  sleeve,  and  a  remem- 
bered voice  thrilled  him  with  its  sweetness. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  this  is  you  t " 

He  was  instantly  erect,  himself  in  every  fibre. 

"  Miss  Morris ! "  was  all  he  said,  but  his  eyes 
devoured  her. 

"She  is  pale,  she  is  thin,  she  has  been  ill  and 
suffering.  Am  I  in  a  dream  t "  he  asked  himself. 
But  again  her  sweet  voice  spoke. 

"This  is  Miss  Deforest,  Mr.  Marsh, — or  am  I  to 
say  Count  Romano  } — and  she  tells  me  we  have  no 
time  to  lose,  that  you  think  there  is  some  danger. 
We  had  no  idea  we  were  so  venturesome  ;  at  least,  I 
trusted  to  Sister  Camilla*s  excellent  seamanship." 

She  stopped  confused  at  his  intent  gaze,  and  at 


ASPIRATIONS.  285 

the  strange  situation.  She  was  dressed  in  a  dark 
brown  cloth,  faced  and  hooded  with  velvet ;  and  her 
hair  was  coiled  under  a  cap  of  the  same,  with  a  snowy- 
sea-bird's  wing  fastened  with  a  glittering  aigrette  of 
curious  stones.  At  her  feet  were  the  cushions  and 
shawls  which  they  had  brought  from  the  boat  to  the 
hut.  He  saw  her  as  if  she  were  a  picture,  and  not  a 
living  reality ;  and  his  own  voice  sounded  strange  and 
far  away  as  he  replied,  — 

"There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  Indeed,  I  am 
not  sure  but  that  discretion  would  advise  your  re- 
maining here  till  the  fog  lifts.  The  wind  seems  to 
be  rising ;  if  so,  it  would  be  hard  pulling,  but  safer 
than  to  risk  this. — What  is  your  opinion,  Miss 
Deforest  >  " 

Sister  Camilla  saw  his  uncertainty  had  arisen  at 
sight  of  Miss  Morris.  She  saw,  also,  that  the  embar- 
rassment of  these  two  must  have  been  caused  by- 
more  than  was  now  apparent ;  and  as  she  peered  into 
the  fog  she  said,  — 

"I  don't  fancy  the  prospect  before  us,  either  way ; 
but,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  share  our  captivity, 
I  shall  be  less  anxious  than  if  we  are  left  to  our  own 
responsibility." 

He  seized  the  chance,  flung  his  oars  back  into  the 
boat,  and  drew  her  high  and  dry  out  of  the  waves. 

**  Now,  I  suppose  we  must  return  to  the  hut,  if  we 
wish  to  keep  off  this  penetrating  moisture,"  said 
Sister  Camilla,  somewhat  relieved  to  see  that  on 
neither  countenance  was  there  any  thing  more  than 
constraint,  and  that  even  this  was  fast  disappearing 
from  Ruth's. 


286  ASPIRATIONS, 

Lillo  took  the  wraps  and  cushions  in  his  keeping, 
saying  rather  brusquely  as  he  did  so,  "  I  thought  all 
visitors  in  this  part  of  the  world  knew  more  than  to 
trust  wind  or  weather  to-day ;  and,  indeed,  I  cannot 
imagine  what  brought  you  here.  I  have  been  told 
that  all  the  houses  are  closed  for  the  season." 

"  So  they  are,  —  at  least,  all  but  the  one  we  are 
in,"  answered  Miss  Deforest ;  "  and  when  a  wilful 
child  who  has  been  ill  expresses  a  wish,  it  is  wise  to 
grant  it,  don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Have  you  been  ill }  "  said  Lillo,  turning  to  Ruth, 
who  lagged  behind,  and  wondering  if  she  had  known 
that  he  was  in  this  neighborhood  too. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  had  so  pleasant  a  remembrance  of 
happy  days  spent  here  long  ago,  that  I  wanted  to  see 
the  Neck  once  more.  I  did  not  know  —  at  least  I 
'was  not  sure  —  that  this  was  where  you  used  to 
live." 

Unhappy  speech  !  it  turned  his  hope  to  bitterness. 
He  stalked  on  moodily,  pushed  into  the  hut,  threw 
down  the  cushions,  and  went  out  again,  saying  he 
would  soon  return. 

"  Who  is  this,  Ruth  ?  and  what  is  the  matter  with 
him  }  "  asked  Miss  Deforest.  **  He  is  an  Adonis  in 
the  rough,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  told  you  his  story  } "  responded 
Ruth.  "O  Sister  Camilla,  he  is  angry  with  me; 
but  why,  I  do  not  know." 

"Oh,  is  he  the  young  count  whose  history  is  so 
romantic  ? " 

"The  same,  but  "  — - 

"  You  said  so  little  that  I  had  to  imagine  much. 


ASPIRA  TIONS,  287 

But  here  he  comes  with  fire-wood  :  that  is  thoughtful 
and  practical.     I  like  him,  dear." 

"  Hush  !  **  said  Ruth,  smiling. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  light  blaze  dancing 
in  the  rude  fireplace ;  and,  though  the  little  hut  was 
bare  and  smoky,  there  was  a  homely  comfort  in  the 
warmth. 

"  Now  for  my  provisions ! "  said  Sister  Camilla, 
opening  a  basket  and  displaying  a  well-stocked  larder. 

"  You  had  better  be  frugal :  there  is  no  knowing 
how  long  you  may  have  to  stay  here,"  said  Lillo. 

"  Oh,  you  only  want  to  frighten  us  ! " 

"  Indeed,  no ;  it  is  possible  that  night  may  add  to 
your  discomfort." 

"  That  is  not  a  pleasant  suggestion." 

"Necessarily,  truth  is  apt  to  be  unpleasant." 

"  Now,  there  I  differ  with  you.  But  I  thought  I 
heard  oars  :  could  anybody  be  coming  for  us  ? " 

"  I  will  go  and  see." 

"  Pardon  me,  let  me  look  out ;  you  stay  with  Miss 
Morris.  —  I  will  return  in  a  moment,  Ruth." 

Sister  Camilla  pushed  open  the  door  and  vanished. 

Lillo  took  a  long  look  at  Ruth.  She  did  not  raise 
her  eyes,  but  it  seemed  to  her  he  must  hear  her 
heart  beat. 

"  I  must  say  one  word,"  he  hurriedly  murmured : 
"  did  you  get  my  letter  }  " 

"  What  letter  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  surprise  that  it 
would  have  taken  a  clever  actress  to  feign. 

"  One  that  I  mailed  to  you  two  days  after  leaving 
New  York.  I  addressed  it  to  Mrs.  Vedder's  care,  at 
the  Fifth-avenue  Hotel." 


288  AS  FIR  A  TIONS. 

"  I  never  received  it." 

There  was  no  mistaking  those  words  nor  the  sim- 
ple directness  of  her  gaze ;  but  Sister  Camilla  this 
moment  entered,  saying,  '*I  was  wrong:  there  is  no 
boat,  it  was  the  beating  of  the  waves.  We  are  indeed 
stranded:  the  fog  is  worse  than  ever." 


ASPIRATIONS.  289 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  fog  to 
lessen,  and  Sister  Camilla  buried  herself  in  her  book. 
Lillo  stirred  up  the  driftwood  fire ;  and  Ruth,  perched 
on  an  upturned  box,  sat  dreamily  watching  him,  a 
faint  flush  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  gladness  in 
her  eyes  that  Miss  Deforest  had  never  seen  in  them 
before.  The  girl  seemed  to  be  so  contented  with 
the  peace  of  the  present  moment  that  she  made  no 
effort  at  conversation ;  but  at  last,  as  Lillo  suffered 
the  fire  to  rest,  and  began  tracing  with  a  stick  in  the 
soft,  white  ashes,  —  an  old  habit  of  his,  —  she  gathered 
her  wandering  wits  together,  and  said,  — 

**  I  have  never  heard  the  conclusion  of  your  story. 
Are  you  going  to  Italy  .«*  and  will  you  assume  the 
title  which  belongs  to  you,  Mr.  Marsh  t " 

"  You  know,  then,  that  my  grandfather  is  dead  t  '* 
he  quickly  returned. 

"  I  saw  the  death  announced,"  she  replied. 

"And  any  thing  else  .'' ** 

"  Nothing  of  consequence." 

He  looked  narrowly  at  her  as  he  said,  "The  news- 
papers cannot  let  people  alone  :  why  they  meddle 
with  personal  concerns  so  much,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  ;  for  me  they  are  the  most  trivial  of  mat- 
ters." 


290  ASPIRATIONS. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  resent  a  friendly  interest," 
Ruth  said  gently. 

"  Indeed  not/'  was  the  quick  reply,  with  an  equally 
quick  look  of  gratitude.  "  No,  I  am  not  going  to 
Italy,  unless,"  and  then  he  checked  himself,  glanced 
at  Sister  Camilla,  who  was  reading  intently,  and  said 
in  a  low  tone,  **  unless  you  send  me  there." 

Ruth's  eyes  dropped ;  but  he  at  once  resumed 
more  audibly,  **  My  grandfather's  death  makes  the 
position  now  much  more  difficult,  for  the  lawyers 
tell  me  that  the  informalities  of  my  papers,  —  which 
are  nevertheless  genuine,  —  and  the  legal  differences 
of  the  two  countries,  would  involve  long-continued 
litigation,  which  would  be  a  great  bore  to  me ;  the 
game  not  being  worth  the  candle.  My  Italian  cousin, 
who  is  next  of  kin,  will  probably  regard  me  as  an 
amiable  lunatic  forgiving  up  what  he  thinks  so  much 
to  him  so  easily.     But  what  do  I  want  of  a  title  1 " 

Sister  Camilla  now  laid  down  her  book  and  drew 
near.  Ruth's  delighted  sympathy  and  appreciation, 
and  the  young  artist's  enthusiastic  disdain,  were 
charming  to  her :  so  she  purposely  said,  — 

"  Is  not  a  title  considered  by  all  respectable  and 
ambitious  Americans  the  proper  handle  to  one's 
name.^  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Marsh,  you  are  not  up  to 
the  times." 

"  I  am  not  up  to  society's  shams.  Miss  Deforest. 
If  titles  are  emblems  of  honor,  let  those  who  have 
them  keep  them :  my  crest  is  a  painter's  brush. 
You  know  it  is  said,  I  forget  by  whom,  that  those 
who  now  wear  coats-of-arms  were  wearing  coats  with- 
out arms  a  short  time  ago." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  2  Q I 

Miss  Deforest  laughed;  but  Ruth  said  softly, — 

"  You  forget,  though,  that  you  have  the  right  to 
some  family  distinction." 

"No,  I  do  not  consider  it  a  right  in  one  sense;  for 
I  think  I  owe  more  to  the  poor  old  fisher-folk  who 
cared  for  me,  than  to  the  proud  family  who  cast  me 
off,  and  made  my  poor  mother  suffer."  He  rose  as 
he  spoke,  and  his  tall  young  figure  seemed  to  touch 
the  top  of  the  hut. 

"  Then  you  wilfully  renounce  the  pomps  and  vani- 
ties offered  you } "  said  Miss  Deforest. 

"Yes,  wilfully.  Whatever  I  can  do  to  make  a 
name  for  myself  will  be  a  better  satisfaction  than  the 
empty  honors  of  the  Romanos.  But  I  must  go  now 
and  see  to  our  prospect  for  getting  home  to-night," 
and  he  left  the  hut. 

"What  a  delightful  young  democrat!"  said  Sister 
Camilla  mischievously,  watching  Ruth's  expressive 
face.  "  He  does  not  seem  to  consider  for  a  moment 
what  a  feather  in  his  cap  a  title  would  be,  nor  how 
the  girls  would  dote  on  it." 

Ruth's  lip  curled,  and  a  proud  satisfaction  in  her 
young  hero  could  not  be  concealed. 

"  He  has  the  right  spirit.  I  am  so  glad  he  thinks 
the  title  unnecessary." 

"  Why,  what  difference  does  it  make  to  you,  dear } " 

"  Oh,  none  particularly  !  "  faltered  Ruth,  conscious 
that  Sister  Camilla  was  laughing  in  her  sleeve  ;  "  but 
I  like  to  hear  noble  sentiments  expressed." 

"  Especially  by  one  so  graceful,  so  gifted,  so 
manly." 

Ruth  looked  up.     "  I  did  not  say  so." 


292  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"But  I  do." 

"Are  you  jesting,  or  in  earnest?** 

"In  sober  earnest.  He  is  admirable.  And  to 
think  that  we  found  him  in  this  desert  spot,  —  a 
chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  reprochey  —  this  suits  my 
idea  of  romance !  '* 

Ruth  still  was  not  sure  she  understood  Sister  Ca- 
milla s  banter,  nor  did  she  altogether  like  the  looking 
at  Lillo  as  a  mere  hero  of  romance.  To  her  he  was 
a  very  real  embodiment  of  the  bravest,  manliest  sen- 
timents ;  besides,  she  was  pondering  what  he  meant 
by  saying  he  would  not  go  to  Italy  unless  she  sent 
him  there. 

Sister  Camilla  gathered  her  skirts  about  her,  and 
sat  down  at  Ruth's  feet.  "  Forgive  me,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  I  never  can  resist  a  little  teasing.  I  will 
say  no  more,  after  I  have  told  you  that  you  are  look- 
ing like  a  new  creature." 

Ruth  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  The  door  of  the 
hut  now  blew  open,  and  they  could  see  the  gulls  fly- 
ing, the  white-caps  tossing,  and  the  fog  breaking. 

"  We  have  wind  enough  now,"  said  Lillo,  coming 
in.     "  Will  you  venture  home  }  " 

"  If  you  will  take  Miss  Morris  in  your  boat,"  said 
Sister  Camilla,  "and  not  otherwise.  For,  though  I 
can  pull  a  strong  oar,  I  should  not  like  to  risk  such 
a  stiff  breeze  as  this,  with  more  than  myself  as  pas- 
senger." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lillo ;  "as  you  please." 

They  were  soon  embarked,  glad  not  to  have  the 
discomfort  of  a  night  on  Seal  Island ;  and,  though 
the  low  band  of  yellow  light  in  the  west  bespoke 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  293 

the  need  of  haste,  the  short  day  drawing  to  its  close 
did  not  intimidate  them. 

It  was  indeed  hard  pulling  for  a  while,  and  there 
was  enough  to  do  to  manage  their  boats ;  but,  as  they 
neared  the  shore  and  shoal  water,  Lillo  leaned  over 
his  oars  and  said,  — 

"Have  you  any  conception  of  all  the  miserable 
doubt  I  have  been  in  these  past  few  months,  Ruth  ? " 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  thought  you  did  not 
care,  —  that  you  had  forgotten  every  thing." 

"  Then  you  did  wonder  a  little  why  I  neither  wrote 
nor  came  ? " 

"Yes." 

She  did  not  tell  him  how  she  had  suffered,  nor  did 
he  ask  her  more.  He  was  satisfied  to  be  near  her, 
to  look  at  her  sweet  face,  to  note  the  tender  outline 
of  her  features,  —  more  delicate  than  when  in  stronger 
health,  —  and  to  breathe  the  same  atmosphere.  He 
was  so  happy  that  he  could  hardly  believe  himself 
to  be  the  gloomy,  morose,  dissatisfied  creature  of  the 
morning.  He  leaped  to  the  shore  in  time  to  take 
Miss  Deforest's  oars  and  secure  her  boat;  then 
they  walked  up  the  sands  in  the  dim  light,  the  wind 
blowing  the  drifting  clouds  about,  and  a  few  stars 
peeping  here  and  there  in  the  dark  space.  As  they 
approached  the  house  where  Miss  Deforest  was 
lodging,  a  ruddy  light  streamed  from  the  doorway ; 
and  the  lounging  men  on  the  step  moved  off  uneasily 
under  Lillo's  sharp  rebuke  to  them  for  allowing 
ladies  to  go  on  the  water  alone  in  such  rough  weather, 
—  though  their  inattention  had  given  him  such  un- 
looked-for happiness. 


294  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

*•  You  will  stay  a  while  longer  at  the  Neck,  I  sup- 
pose, Miss  Deforest,"  said  Lillo  as  they  separated. 

"Long  enough  to  visit  your  studio,  if  you  will 
allow  us  to-morrow,"  she  replied. 

He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  calling  his  old  house  a 
studio,  but  promised  to  show  them  any  of  his  studies 
that  they  cared  to  see. 

People  in  love  are  not  supposed  to  be  so  material 
as  to  suffer  the  commonplace  pangs  of  hunger,  but 
Lillo's  man  of  all  work  was  kept  busy  that  evening 
over  his  kitchen-fire;  and  when  he  raked  out  its  em- 
bers, it  was  with  some  dismay  that  he  heard  orders 
for  breakfast  which  would  oblige  him  to  be  stirring 
early,  having  exhausted  all  his  resources  on  the  even- 
ing meal.  He  had  so  long  had  his  own  leisurely 
way,  that  it  was  also  a  surprise  to  him  to  have  to  put 
the  whole  house  in  as  trim  shape  as  a  ship's  cabin, 
and  to  see  his  master  trailing  in  heaps  of  woodland 
treasures  which  he  had  gone  miles  to  gather  in  the 
early  morning.  The  shells  and  seaweed  which 
adorned  the  small  sitting-room  had  to  yield  preced- 
ence to  masses  of  crysanthemums,  in  white,  yellow, 
and  red ;  but  the  man  smiled  knowingly,  when,  later 
in  the  day,  two  ladies  made  their  appearance. 

"So  this  is  your  den,"  said  Ruth,  "the  place  of 
poetic  visions,"  as  she  glanced  at  the  low  walls,  the 
bare  boards,  and  the  quaint,  stiff,  straight  chairs. 

"  Oh,  no !  not  my  den  ;  these  are  my  ancestral 
halls,"  said  Lillo,  laughing,  "  the  palace  of  the  Marsh- 
Romano." 

"It  would  not  be  a  bad  idea  to  link  the  two 
names,"  said  Miss  Deforest.     "It,  in  a  way,  estab- 


ASPIRA  riONS.  295 

lishes  your  right  to  relinquish  the  title,  or  not,  as 
you  please." 

"That  shall  be  as  Ruth  chooses,"  he  would  have 
liked  to  respond,  but  he  had  to  check  himself.  The 
reversion  from  the  exultant  frame  of  mind  which  had 
been  his  had  set  in,  and  he  was  now  again  in  suspense. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  as  he  threw  open  the  wooden 
shutters;  "the  title  to  this  is  one  that  no  one  can 
dispute." 

The  broad  blue  expanse  of  water  lay  calm  in  the 
autumnal  sunshine,  dotted  here  and  there  with  the 
white  sails  of  the  fishing-smacks.  Ruth  seated  her- 
self near  the  window,  and  gazed  in  silent  abstraction. 

Meanwhile,  Lillo  drew  out  his  sketches  and  stud- 
ies for  Miss  Deforest's  inspection,  saying,  as  he  did 
so, — 

"They  are  hardly  worth  looking  at.  I  have  done 
no  good  work  for  months,  but  I  shall  begin  in  ear- 
nest as  soon  as  I  have  secured  a  studio  in  New 
York." 

"  I  am  glad  you  intend  to  do  that.  This  may  do 
very  well  as  a  place  to  dream  in,  but  every  artist 
needs  the  friction  of  active  city  life ;  besides,  your 
work  requires  good,  living  models." 

"Yes,  seclusion  will  not  answer;  one  must  be  in 
the  world.  —  By  the  by,  Miss  Morris  "  (he  did  not  dare 
to  say  "  Ruth  "  before  Miss  Deforest),  "  what  has  be- 
come of  all  our  little  Italian  world  of  friends  ?  Where 
are  the  Aldens  and  Mr.  Barclay  ? " 

"Surely  you've  heard  of  the  Aldens'  loss  of  for- 
tune," answered  Ruth. 

"Not  a  word." 


296  ASPIRATIONS, 

"  Nor  May's  marriage  ? " 

"  No ;  to  Branly  Potter,  I  suppose,  as  a  matter  of 
course." 

"  Yes.  I  should  have  thought  he  would  have  writ- 
ten." 

"  Oh,  when  a  fellow's  happy,  he  forgets  his  friends  ! 
I  am  glad,  however,  to  hear  of  his  good  luck.  Do 
you  know  what  he  is  about  ? " 

"  He  is  going  to  Colorado.  Their  steamer  was  due 
some  days  ago,  but  I  am  afraid  I  have  missed  seeing 
May.  We  have  wandered  about  so,  that  letters  have 
miscarried,  or  not  been  forwarded ;  and  my  illness 
made  me  negligent  about  writing." 

"And  Miss  Grace,  —  where  is  she }  " 

"With  her  aunt  in  London.  She  writes  that  she 
is  very  busy.  She  has  found  a  good  friend  in  the 
Duchess  of  Stickingham.  You  remember  her.  What 
a  contrast  she  was  to  Mrs.  Coit !  Grace  is  deter- 
mined to  maintain  herself,  and  has  resisted  all  May's 
inducements  to  go  with  her  to  the  West.  She  and 
her  aunt  are  almost  penniless.  Indeed,  I  don't  know 
what  they  would  have  done,  had  it  not  been  for  my 
guardian." 

"  And  is  Mr.  Barclay  well }    Does  he  soon  return  t  '* 

"  Ah,  that  I  cannot  answer  !  He  has  been  very 
mysterious  lately.  He  must  be  well,  for  he  has  been 
to  Switzerland;  but  whether  I  am  to  join  him  abroad, 
or  he  is  to  return,  I  really  do  not  know." 

Lillo  received  this  answer  with  another  chill  of 
anxiety  and  impatience.  He  knew  that  Miss  De- 
forest was  to  leave  the  Neck  on  the  morrow,  and 
the  prospect  of  more  uncertainty  was  unendurable. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  297 

It  was  well  that  Mr.  Barclay  could  not  hear  his  men- 
tal apostrophe.  Miss  Deforest  now  arose  from  look- 
ing over  a  portfolio,  and  suggested  a  walk ;  but  Ruth 
seemed  quite  contented  to  remain  where  she  was. 
She  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  the  studies  and 
sketches  :  she  was  thinking  of  the  old  Italian  gar- 
dens and  palace,  and  contrasting  them  with  the  little 
brown  house  she  was  in,  and  wondering  whether  it 
was  quite  right,  after  all,  to  throw  off  the  burden  of 
ancestral  honors,  and  be  contented  to  toil  obscurely 
on,  as  Lillo  proposed  to  do.  To  be  sure,  here  was 
peace  and  primeval  simplicity  ;  but  might  not  the  other 
career  be  better,  wider,  larger,  more  suited  to  his  tal- 
ents }  Could  not  his  influence  be  made  more  condu- 
cive to  the  good  of  others }  She  was  quite  lost  in 
these  abstractions,  as  she  arose  dreamily  to  do  her 
companion's  bidding. 

Lillo  misconstrued  her  absence  of  mind  immedi- 
ately as  a  lack  of  interest,  and  he  too  became  moody. 
There  seemed  to  be  less  sunshine  in  the  day,  as  they 
all  emerged  from  the  house.  But  the  good  sister  had 
her  surmises  ;  and,  as  they  neared  the  sands,  she 
turned  quickly  away,  and  said  she  must  go  home  to 
pack,  leaving  her  young  friends  to  themselves.  It 
was  the  opportunity  Lillo  had  coveted,  but  his  lips 
seemed  sealed.  The  ocean,  in  its  limitless  expanse, 
was  suggestive  of  the  futurity  before  him.  He  too 
had  his  thoughts  of  Ruth,  and  her  sweet  womanhood, 
as  momentous,  as  conflicting,  as  her  views  of  his 
career. 

There  was  a  thrill  of  deep  emotion  in  his  voice, 
when  he  at  last  found  courage  to  speak. 


298  ASPIRATIONS. 

"  Ruth,*'  was  all  he  said. 

She  turned  towards  him  at  once,  but  seeing  his 
excitement,  became,  as  women  will,  all  eagerness  to 
avert  an  issue. 

"  How  bright  and  clear  the  view  is  to-day !  Who 
would  have  supposed  yesterday,  that  the  sun  would 
ever  shine  again,  and  where  do  the  fogs  come  from  so 
suddenly  }  It  must  be  a  dreadfully  dangerous  coast. 
An  old  woman  on  the  beach,  the  other  day,  told  me 
she  had  lost  her  father,  her  husband,  and  three  sons, 
all  by  the  sea.  And  yet  we  think  it  so  beautiful,  for- 
getting its  cruel  hunger,  its  deadly  enmity."  - 

"  Ruth,  I  must  speak  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  sort  of  gasped. 

"You  know  I  love  you." 

She  did  not  say  "  yes  "  again,  but  her  face  lost  its 
look  of  alarm  for  one  of  tender  sadness.  Love  comes 
as  a  great  and  solemn  trust  to  a  girl  of  her  nature. 
She  listened  intently  as  he  went  on,  now  rapidly,  now 
slowly,  —  watching  her  as  he  spoke,  and  wondering 
if  she  understood  him. 

"  You  must  have  known  this  long  ago.  I  would 
have  spoken  before.  The  letter  I  wrote  you  contained 
the  expression  of  it,  but  that  never  reached  you  ;  and 
the  withholding  of  an  answer  made  me  desperate, 
I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  but  no  one  is.  I  would 
strive  to  be,  if  you  would  let  me.  Am  I  mistaken  in 
daring  to  hope  that  you  care  a  little  for  me  .'* " 

She  could  not  speak  yet,  the  joy  and  the  pain  were 
too  exquisite ;  but  he  saw  her  lips  parting  with  the 
words  that  trembled  to  escape. 

"  I  must  speak  the  whole  truth  now,  and  tell  you 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  299 

that  I  have  tried  to  live  without  you.  When  no 
answer  came,  I  was  wounded,  and  it  added  to  the 
doubt  I  have  had  all  along ;  for,  you  know,  it  is 
thought  by  so  many  "  —  But  here  he  stopped,  unwil- 
ling to  put  his  doubts  in  shape. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Ruth,  made  calmer  by  this 
allusion. 

"  But  it  is  not  true,  Ruth.  Tell  me  so,  for  I  cannot 
live  without  you.  All  my  interest  even  in  my  pro- 
fession has  died  within  me ;  only  you  can  waken  it. 
Do  speak  to  me,  Ruth  !  " 

His  tones  had  varied  from  the  simplest,  manliest 
utterance  to  the  passionate  pleading  which  intense 
feeling  only  could  impart,  and  Ruth  felt  so  shaken 
by  it  that  she  could  scarcely  command  her  voice. 
She  had  thought  of  him  as  always  so  strong  and 
joyous ;  but  she  rallied  her  forces  and  whispered,  — 

"What  shall  I  say.?  That  I,  too,  have  tried  living 
without  you,  and  found  it  impossible." 

He  could  not  take  her  in  his  arms  as  he  would 
have  liked  to  do,  but  he  grasped  her  hands  as  if  she 
might  possibly  escape  him. 

"And  you  are  not  in  any  way  bound } " 

"  No.  Mr.  Barclay  has  never  demanded  what  the 
world  expected,  nor  do  I  think  my  gratitude  could 
have  gone  so  far." 

"  Then  you  have  no  absurd  heroics  to  overcome. 
You  will  be  my  wife  1 " 

"  I  will,"  came  slowly  and  softly,  but  firmly,  from 
her  now  smiling  lips  ;  and  once  again,  as  when  a  boy, 
Lillo  felt  as  if  the  earth  were  air,  and  he  had  wings. 

They  never  knew  how  that  day  spent  itself.    There 


300  ASPIRATIONS. 

was  so  much  to  say,  so  much  that  remained  unsaid  ; 
but  Ruth  managed  to  make  known  the  failure  of  all 
her  aims,  and  her  utter  inability  to  be  or  do  any 
thing  remarkable,  which  all  the  more  satisfied  her 
lover,  as  giving  him  the  larger  share  of  her  affec- 
tions. 

They  strolled  till  again  the  stars  were  twinkling  as 
on  the  night  before,  here  and  there  in  wind-swept 
spaces,  and  the  fishing-boats  were  coming  in  over  the 
tossing  waves.  Long  lines  of  light  darted  from  the 
cottage  windows  where  busy  women  were  making 
suppers  ready  for  the  hungry  toilers  of  the  sea,  and 
the  voices  of  little  children  trilled  out  shrill  welcomes 
to  the  deep  bass  of  fathers'  and  brothers'  voices. 
There  was  a  homely  warmth  and  gladness  even  on 
this  chill,  windy  coast,  and  it  found  a  response  in  the 
happiness  of  these  two  young  hearts  full  of  their 
new,  deep  joy. 

Sister  Camilla  met  Ruth  with  a  playful  reproof 
that  needed  no  defence,  for  she  knew  intuitively  what 
had  happened.  Hers  was  no  ascetic  soul  narrowed 
to  the  small  groove  of  one  set  of  duties.  She  could 
feel  for  those  who  were  happy  as  well  as  for  those 
who  sorrowed,  which  is  sometimes  the  more  difficult 
task. 

Lillo  concluded  to  turn  the  key  in  the  door  of  his 
little  house  on  the  sands,  and  go  with  his  friends  to 
the  city.  It  was  rather  late  in  the  season,  but  he 
had  now  a  new  impetus  towards  climbing  the  ladder 
of  fame,  which,  if  not  synonymous  with  that  of  for- 
tune, ought  to  be ;  and  there  was  much  to  be  done  in 
the  way  of  establishing  himself  for  the  winter's  work. 


ASPIRATIONS.  301 

As  yet  there  could  be  no  immediate  hope  of  marriage, 
for  besides  Mr.  Barclay's  approbation,  of  which  he 
was  by  no  means  sure,  in  view  of  any  such  prepara- 
tions, Mr.  Barclay's  purse  would  also  be  an  important 
factor,  —  a  truth,  however,  not  so  apparent  to  him  as 
to  Ruth. 


302  ASPIKA  TIONS. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

It  is  a  cold,  cheerless  day  in  London ;  and  Grace 
Alden  cannot  help  comparing  its  inclemency  with  the 
bright,  soft  airs  of  Italy,  or  the  abundant  sunshine 
of  her  American  home.  She  is  the  more  inclined  to 
do  this  because  of  her  loneliness  and  sadness  at  hav- 
ing to  part  with  her  buoyant  young  sister,  who  came 
upon  herself  and  her  aunt  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
cyclone  one  morning,  and  expected  them  to  at  once 
take  leave  of  the  Old  World  for  the  New,  and  join 
fortunes  with  her  and  her  young  husband.  This  Miss 
Alden  would  not  do.  No  amount  of  persuasion  or 
argument  could  induce  her  to  leave  London  now  that 
she  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  independence,  in  the 
shape  of  checks  for  her  foreign  letters ;  and  least 
of  all  would  she  go  to  the  horrid  West,  the  frontier, 
the  place  of  barbarisms,  the  uncivilized  chaos  of 
society.  Branly  Potter  urged  that  its  new  life,  its 
freshness,  were  just  what  she  needed,  and  that  no- 
where else  could  she  be  so  entirely  respected  for 
herself  alone  as  in  their  new  home.  He  was  to  hold 
some  responsible  position  connected  with  the  mines, 
and  felt  amply  able  to  assist  Grace  and  Miss  Alden  in 
any  effort  they  might  wish  to  make.  But  Miss  Al- 
den was  invincible.     No  new  country  for  her,    "Bet- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  303 

ter  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay/' 
though  this  Western  Cathay  was  a  much  worse  place 
to  her  imagination  than  the  Eastern  one,  a  place  of 
dreary  uncouthness  and  disorder,  sterile  of  refine- 
ments. So  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Potter  had  begged  and  urged 
in  vain,  and  had  at  last  said  "good-by"  reluctantly; 
for  they  felt  convinced  that  sooner  or  later  Miss  Al- 
den  must  yield,  and  it  would  be  so  much  pleasanter  to 
have  Grace  go  with  them  at  once  than  to  be  worried 
about  her  until  she  joined  them.  Grace,  of  course, 
had  to  make  the  best  of  her  aunt's  decision,  though 
better  than  any  one  else  did  she  know  what  it  meant, 
—  steady  toil,  hard  fare,  and  small  pay.  She  looks 
around  her  now  at  the  faded  carpet,  the  cheap  furni- 
ture, the  battered  fire-irons,  and  the  dull  fire.  Her 
work  is  beside  her  ;  so  is  a  clever  book  that  has  found 
its  way  to  her  through  the  kindness  of  some  friends 
(for friends  had  found  them  out,  in  spite  of  themselves), 
but  she  has  no  time  to  read.  She  looks  at  it  long- 
ingly, but  takes  up  her  needle  resolutely,  thinking 
what  pleasure  it  would  have  been  to  go  with  May  to 
that  far  away  West,  where  with  new  courage  and 
hope  she  could  have  helped  to  make  her  sister's 
little  home  a  happy  one.  And  she  smiles  with  a  sad 
sort  of  contempt  at  her  own  forlornness,  and  her 
aunt's  preference  for  this  dingy  drudging  to  the 
plunge  into  the  more  primitive  conditions  of  Western 
life.  What  indeed  could  be  more  absurd  than  their 
weak  struggle  to  be  ladies  and  working- women  com- 
bined.?  This  is  her  way  of  regarding  her  aunt's 
high-flown  notions.  She  knows  better,  she  knows 
that  nothing  she  does  in  the  way  of  work  can  render 


304  ASPIRATIONS. 

her  less  a  lady  than  she  has  always  been  ;  but,  for  all 
that,  she  prefers  to  say  she  is  not  one,  that  she  has 
descended  to  a  lower  social  scale,  and  is  contented. 
This  is  partly  the  result  of  her  aunt's  long-continued 
conversations,  partly  the  effect  of  all  her  trouble ;  for, 
with  all  her  courage  and  determination,  hardship  has 
worn  upon  her.  It  is  a  trial  to  get  up  early  these 
dark  mornings,  and  do  what  she  can  before  their  fire 
is  lighted,  and  breakfast  brought  in  ;  and  it  is  a  still 
greater  one  to  go  out  for  the  petty  marketing  which 
her  small  pelf  obliges  her  to  do  rather  than  trust  to 
her  avaricious  landlady.  She  thinks  it  would  not 
have  been  hard  to  do  any  of  these  things  if  she  had 
been  brought  up  to  them,  —  these  small  economies 
or  the  sacrifice  of  ease ;  but  she  remembers  only 
too  well  the  luxury  of  her  American  home,  where, 
with  no  mother  and  an  indulgent  father,  there  had 
been  as  lavish  outlay  as  in  many  foreign  palaces. 

Miss  Alden  breaks  in  upon  her  meditations  with  a 
question  which  answers  itself  concerning  the  post- 
man. The  letters  are  a  never-failing  excitement ;  and 
they  have  just  been  brought  in  by  the  poor,  hard- 
working Httle  housemaid,  for  whom  Grace  has  more 
fellow-feeling  than  she  ever  had  for  any  of  the  maids 
in  her  father's  fine  house.  Instantly  both  are  ab- 
sorbed in  their  correspondence.  Only  those  who 
have  few  interests  know  the  value  of  letters.  Busy, 
active  people  find  no  time  for  them  ;  gay,  worldly 
people  think  them  a  bore ;  and  even  the  studious  and 
reflecting  would  rather  not  be  forced  to  attend  to 
them.  Letters  seem  to  have  had  their  day ;  the 
constant  influx  of   news  in  the  journals  and  maga- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  305 

zines,  from  all  quarters  of  the  world,  having  taken 
their  place.  The  sprightliness,  the  grace,  the  charm 
of  letters  are  no  longer  appreciated,  except  by  those 
who  pay  for  them.  But  this  is  not  the  case  with 
Miss  Alden  and  her  niece.  Both  are  glad  to  forget 
their  surroundings,  and  hear  of  the  sayings  and  do- 
ings of  their  friends ;  and  frequent  travelling  has  made 
letters  a  necessity.  Miss  Alden  goes  through  her 
pile  first,  and  is  about  gathering  them  together  for 
re-perusal,  when  she  sees  something  in  Grace's  man- 
ner that  attracts  her  attention.  The  girl  has  appar- 
ently forgotten  the  letters,  though  but  a  few  minutes 
before  absorbed  in  them,  and  is  gazing  into  the  half- 
burnt  coals  of  the  fire  as  if  she  saw  a  wraith. 

"  Grace  !  "  calls  her  aunt. 

"Yes." 

"  What  is  the  news  }  who  have  you  heard  from  } " 

"Several  people."  This  is  spoken  so  mechanically 
that  Miss  Alden's  ire  is  aroused. 

"  That  is  rather  vague." 

"Yes,"  is  still  the  abstracted  answer,  and  Grace 
still  peers  into  the  dull  fire. 

"  Who  are  they  ? " 

"Oh,  one  and  another! — the  Browns,  Miss  Per- 
kins, Lily  Everett." 

"  They  are  of  no  consequence,"  says  Miss  Alden 
impatiently.     "  I  wonder  you  keep  up  with  them." 

No  answer. 

Grace  is  wondering  if  her  fate  is  always  to  meet 
her  in  a  letter,  as  far  as  she  can  form  any  thought 
at  all ;  but  she  struggles  to  be  unconcerned  and 
indifferent,  and   succeeds,  for  directly  Miss   Alden 


306  ASriRA  TIONS. 

asks  the  meaning  of  the  note  with  the  duchess's 
crest. 

"  Oh,  that  is  an  invitation ! "  answers  Grace,  now 
crushing  the  other  letters  into  her  work-basket. 
"  The  duchess  wishes  us  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
her." 

"  No  ;  you  don't  say  so  .^ " 

"  Yes  ;  here,  read  it."     She  is  quite  alert  now. 

Miss  Alden  devours  the  gracious  request,  written 
in  the  larg^,  flowing  style  she  likes  so  well.  It  is  in 
the  third  person,  and  was  probably  penned  by  her 
Highness's  secretary  or  governess ;  but  that  is  no 
matter.  It  pleases  Miss  Alden,  who,  to  Grace's  sur- 
prise, begins  to  think  of  ways  and  means  immedi- 
ately. 

"  It  is  uncommonly  kind.  I  don't  see  that  we  can 
refuse.  I  wonder  if  my  velvet  dress  is  in  proper 
shape." 

"  Why,  aunt,  will  you  really  go  1 " 

"  I  think  I  ought  to,  she  has  been  so  kind,  so  at- 
tentive. Just  think  of  all  the  fruit  and  flowers  and 
game  we  have  had  lately." 

"Yes,  she  has  been  kind;  but  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  all  those  gifts  came  from  one  source :  we  have 
other  friends,  you  know." 

"None  who  would  so  go  out  of  their  way  to  do  us 
a  kindness  :  no,  no  one  but "  —  And  she  checked 
herself,  for  she  now  never  mentioned  Mr.  Barclay. 

"But  surely  you  forget  how  difficult  it  will  be. 
There's  the  cost  of  the  journey,  some  necessary  out- 
lay besides,  and  —  Why,  we  haven't  enough  even 
to  tip  the  servants." 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  307 

"  A  very  vulgar  thing  to  do,  in  my  opinion.  Yes, 
I  daresay" — this  is  said  with  a  sigh  —  "that  I  shall 
have  to  spend  a  little  more  than  is  prudent ;  but  I 
must  go,  if  only  for  your  sake,  child."  And  Miss 
Alden  glances  in  the  looking-glass  in  an  inquiring 
way,  as  if  to  see  whether  society  will  discover  her 
attempt  to  keep  up  with  it  on  lessened  resources. 

"  Oh,  don't  count  me  in,  please  ! "  says  Grace  :  "  I 
have  too  much  to  do." 

"  Nonsense  !  lose  such  a  chance  as  this,  —  'twould 
be  absurd !  " 

"  My  wardrobe  would  forbid  it,  if  nothing  else  did. 
I  cannot  appear  in  the  necessary  freshness.  My 
silks  are  old-fashioned,  and  my  evening  dresses  all  in 
disorder  from  being  boxed  so  long  ;  and  as  for  gloves, 
I  am  on  my  last  pair  now." 

**  Why,  how  careless  you  must  be,  Grace !  My 
things  are  all  as  good  as  ever.  My  brocade  and  my 
satin  are  older  than  my  velvet,  but  the  three  are  all 
very  handsome,  even  if  rather  antiquated  in  style ; 
but  I  would  rather  have  them  that  way  than  be  taken 
for  nouveau  riche  by  my  splendor." 

Grace  leans  back  in  her  chair,  and  laughs  softly  to 
herself. 

"  It  is  nouveau  pauvre  with  us,  as  your  words 
betray.  Poor  dear  aunt,  don't  cheat  yourself  into 
thinking  there  will  be  any  possible  pleasure  in  this 
attempt !     I  cannot  go." 

"  O  Grace,  don't  thwart  me  in  every  thing  !  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  it  is  impossible." 

"  Now,  don't  you  suppose  all  sorts  of  people  go  to 
these  places?      Literary  persons   never  have    any 


308  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

money.  Look  at  Carlyle  and  his  wife,  —  poor  as 
church-mice  always." 

Miss  Alden  already  felt  herself  of  the  guild  of 
authors,  as  may  be  perceived. 

"  They  never  appeared  in  gay  society,  so  far  as  I 
know,"  said  Grace.  "  They  would  have  scorned  to, 
with  their  hatred  of  shams." 

Miss  Alden  saw  the  mistake  of  her  illustration. 

"  Well,  it  was  Carlyle's  business  to  preach,  mine  is 
to  entertain ;  it  is  necessary,  therefore,  that  I  en- 
deavor to  see  something  which  will  serve  my  pur- 
pose." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  if  it  is  feasible." 

"  Then  you  will  go  too  t  " 

"  Ah,  that  is  not  necessary !  Really,  I  cannot. 
Don't  ask  me  to.  Look  at  all  this  work.  It  will 
take  me  till  Christmas  to  finish  it." 

Miss  Alden  went  into  another  room  to  look  over 
her  fineries.  She  did  not  know  that  almost  all  of 
Grace's  had  been  sold,  and  she  hoped  by  dint  of 
coaxing  yet  to  accomplish  her  end.  Grace  seized 
the  opportunity  while  her  aunt  was  out  to  again 
look  at  her  letters.  One  was  from  Ruth,  full  of  her 
new  happiness.  This  alone  was  unexpected,  for 
Grace  had  had  a  theory  of  her  own  in  regard  to 
Ruth,  which  this  letter  completely  upset ;  and  the 
other  was  from  her  father's  business-agent,  enclos- 
ing a  draft  for  a  respectable  sum,  and  a  statement 
which  overpowered  all  the  other  news.  It  was  to 
this  effect :  All  Mr.  Alden's  affairs  had  been  set- 
tled in  such  a  manner,  through  the  kindness  of  a 
friend,  that  Mr.  Alden  himself  would  be  able  to  re- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  309 

sume  business,  and  had  gone  to  California  with  that 
intention  ;  and  that  later,  if  Miss  Alden  and  her 
aunt  would  join  him,  he  should  be  glad  to  have  them 
do  so. 

The  one  thing  that  checked  Grace's  gladness  at 
reading  this  was  the  uncertainty  as  to  whom  the 
friend,  the  financial  friend,  might  be.  Her  thoughts 
were  in  a  whirl.  Was  their  misery  soon  to  be  ended.? 
Was  her  father  really  free  from  all  reproach  t  It 
had  come  upon  her  so  suddenly  that  it  seemed 
unreal.  Her  father  seldom  wrote  to  her.  She 
hardly  knew  his  friends,  —  brokers,  bankers,  men  of 
money  ;  hard  men,  as  she  supposed,  not  likely  to  do 
any  greatly  unselfish  deed,  men  who  laughed  at  sen- 
timent, and  thought  generosity  a  weakness.  Could 
any  of  these  have  changed  his  nature,  and,  in  viola- 
tion of  his  training,  become  a  benefactor.?  No,  it 
was  not  possible.  It  was  all  out  of  order,  incompre- 
hensible. She  would  wait  for  further  intelligence 
before  throwing  this  bomb  in  Miss  Alden's  way. 
The  news  might  prove  untrue.  It  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve, even  if  true,  and  no  good  could  be  gained  by 
disturbing  her  aunt.  In  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  be- 
lieved there  was  but  one  man  in  all  the  world  capa- 
ble of  doing  so  noble  a  deed  ;  and  a  great  tide  of 
shame  and  regret  rushed  over  her  as  she  thought  of 
him.  Where  was  he  ?  Why  had  he  been  so  quick 
to  take  her  at  her  word  } 

She  pretended  to  be  very  much  absorbed  in  her 
work  when  Miss  Alden  came  into  the  room  again,  but 
her  hand  trembled  so  that  her  stitches  went  wrong. 

Miss  Alden  was  full  of  the  new  project. 


3  I O  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

"  I  find,  my  dear "  (she  did  not  often  now-a-days 
say  to  her  niece  "my  dear")  "that  I  am  in  better 
trim  than  I  supposed.  My  evening  attire  is  all  that 
a  woman  of  my  age  needs, — substantial,  dignified, 
almost  elegant.  If  I  could  be  as  sure  of  my  morn- 
ing gowns,  I  would  be  quite  satisfied.  What  do  you 
suppose,  Grace,  is  en  regie  for  breakfast  dress? 
Would  my  plain  black  silk  answer  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  so.  All  the  shop- 
women  wear  black  silk.  I  mean  the  fine  shopwomen 
who  preside  over  the  small-fry." 

"  Grace  ! " 

Grace  looked  up  smilingly,  quite  unconscious  of 
the  vexation  she  had  caused. 

"I  wish  you  would  be  serious.  For  pity's  sake, 
don't  associate  me  with  such  people.'* 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  really  some  of  them  are 
fine-looking  women." 

"  Canaille^  all  of  them.  What  they  do  or  don't  do 
does  not  interest  me.  Have  they  the  faintest  idea 
of  harmony  or  artistic  fitness  in  dress  } " 

"  They  have  but  feeble  appreciation  of  either, 
very  likely,  though  they  sometimes  light  on  what  is 
becoming.  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  their  black 
silks  are  all  given  to  them  by  the  firms  who  employ 
them." 

"  Why  will  you  persist  in  talking  about  them  }  " 

Grace  laughed.  She  was  really  wild  with  sup- 
pressed excitement. 

"  I  know  what  I  will  do,  aunt.  I  will  go  to  some 
celebrated  establishment,  Redfern's  perhaps,  and  ask 
them  just  what  would  be  the  proper  thing  for  you. 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  311 

They  will  expect  an  order,  of  course,  but  no  matter ; 
I'll  just  mention  the  duchess,  and  they'll  send  you 
any  thing  you  want  to  look  at." 

"  Grace  ! " 

"  Yes,  it's  polite  stealing  of  their  ideas  ;  but  to  keep 
up  with  society,  one  mustn't  be  too  particular.  We 
can  find  out  that  way  just  what  is  worn,  and  then 
hire  some  poor  little  sewing-woman  to  copy." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  has  gotten  into  you.  This 
sounds  like  Mrs.  Godfrey  Gray.  Do  behave  your- 
self." 

Grace  tossed  away  her  work  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow, saying,  — 

"  I  believe  I'll  go  out,  I  need  exercise.  My  head 
throbs." 

"  I  should  think  it  might,  if  folly  ever  causes  head- 
ache ;  and  please  get  me  some  note-paper.  I  must 
write  our  acceptance. 

"Not  mine." 

"Oh,  you  may  change  your  mind.  Fresh  air  is 
wonderfully  beneficial." 

She  was  gone  only  a  half  hour,  long  enough  to 
calm  and  collect  herself,  and  consider  whether  she 
had  not  better  inform  her  aunt  of  the  news.  It 
seemed  so  selfish  to  keep  it  to  herself,  even  if  it 
were  unreliable ;  for  she  was  not  at  all  disposed  to 
accept  it  as  a  certainty  after  so  much  harassing 
trouble  and  doubt  and  wearing  anxiety.  When  she 
returned,  she  found  her  aunt  in  conversation  with  a 
gentleman  who  was  in  the  shadow  of  their  cheap, 
stuffy  curtains,  nor  did  she  at  first  recognize  Mr. 
Barclay. 


3 1 2  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

Young  people  exact  far  more  sympathy  in  their 
love-affairs  than  do  their  elders ;  for  when  a  person 
of  maturity  risks  all  in  a  venture  of  the  affections, 
and  loses,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  mistake  which  age 
and  experience  should  have  prevented.  No  one 
thinks  it  a  very  deep  wound,  probably  because  the 
person  of  maturity  has  learned  the  art  of  hiding  the 
pain,  and  does  not  bemoan  his  fate  as  a  younger  man 
would  do  in  similar  circumstances. 

Mr.  Barclay  had  not  been  without  his  share  of 
trials,  and  had  learned  philosophy  ;  but  he  suffered 
nevertheless.  The  loss  of  his  wife  had  been  an  in- 
tense sorrow,  out  of  which  he  had  come  unimbittered, 
though  broken  in  health  and  spirits.  Time  (scene- 
painter,  as  well  as  scene-shifter)  had  brushed  his 
healing  wing  over  the  past,  and  mellowed  its  pictures 
into  a  dreamy  distance,  a  poetic  vision  which  was  not 
without  a  certain  charm  for  a  contemplative  nature. 
This  new  stroke  was  a  fresh,  keen,  cutting  one,  a 
disappointment  that  bade  fair  to  sour  him  ;  the  more 
apt  since  he  had  so  buried  himself  in  London  that 
no  friend  had  been  able  to  find  him. 

He  had  gone  about  from  one  suite  of  rooms  to 
another,  finding  fault  upon  trifling  pretexts,  dissatis- 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  3 1 3 

fied,  ill  at  ease,  not  staying  long  enough  in  one  place 
to  discover  whether  it  suited  him  or  not,  and  at  last 
settling  down  in  an  obscure  quarter  where  his  ser- 
vant could  hardly  make  him  comfortable.     , 

But  he  was  not  to  be  moved  again.  It  was  no  small 
matter  for  one  so  accustomed  to  space  and  ease, 
and  a  large  way  of  living,  to  relinquish  his  usual 
habits  ;  but  he  had  a  purpose  in  doing  it,  from  which 
he  was  not  to  be  deterred  by  any  personal  inconven- 
ience. He  became  much  addicted  to  long  and  soli- 
tary walks,  and  equally  given  to  silence  and  medita- 
tion. He  looked  thin  and  altered,  even  much  older. 
The  people  who  noticed  him  thought  him  in  ill-health, 
and  would  have  recommended  Nice  or  Mentone 
rather  than  the  approaching  dull,  dreary,  English 
winter,  if  he  had  encouraged  their  confidence,  which 
he  did  not  do.  They  were  not  friends.  They  had" 
only  seen  him  in  the  street  or  at  church,  but  his 
appearance  attracted  them. 

Although  with  so  pre-occupied  an  air,  he  seemed 
always  looking  for  some  one,  expecting  some  one ;  but 
this  was  only  apparent  to  close  observers.  Others 
thought  him  a  very  dignified,  gentlemanly,  sad  sort 
of  a  man,  rather  at  a  loss  for  something  to  do.  But 
these  observations  came  from  the  very  few  with  whom 
he  had  to  have  some  contact,  such  as  his  landlady 
and  her  lodgers. 

He  had  never  been  attentive  to  small  economies  ; 
but  now  he  showed  so  new  an  interest  in  the  cost  of 
commodities,  and  was  so  very  frugal,  that  his  servant 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  lost  heavily,  and 
that  want  of  money  was  the  key  to  all  his  peculiari- 


3 1 4  ASPIRA  TIONS, 

ties.  It  did  look  as  if  this  were  the  case,  for  his  busi- 
ness correspondence  had  certainly  increased,  and  his 
letters  took  up  much  of  his  time. 

But  when  Ruth's  letter,  telling  of  her  happiness, 
came  to  him,  it  was  like  a  dash  of  cold  water.  He 
seemed  to  suddenly  wake  up  to  the  fact  that  his 
whims  had  swayed  him  too  long,  and  that  his  ward's 
claim  upon  him  had  been  neglected.  To  his  serving- 
man's  surprise,  he  gave  orders  to  have  every  thing 
in  readiness  for  an  early  steamer.  He  was  going  to 
the  United  States. 

After  this  he  was  his  usual  self  again,  —  went  to 
the  Travellers*  Club  and  everywhere  else  that  he 
had  the  e7ttree;  and  on  his  list  of  people  to  visit  or 
leave  cards  for  was  Miss  Alden. 

Thus  it  was  that  late  in  the  chilly  afternoon  of  the 
day  that  Grace  had  been  so  startled  by  her  home 
news,  Mr.  Barclay  made  his  appearance.  She  showed 
her  surprise  quite  artlessly ;  but  he  arose  in  his  quiet 
way,  and  greeted  her  as  if  they  had  met  the  day 
before. 

Miss  Alden  was  nonplussed  ;  but,  as  she  had  never 
understood  the  cause  of  their  separation,  she  made 
no  attempt  to  fathom  it  now.  She  had  been  talking 
of  every  thing  and  everybody  as  of  old,  heartily  glad 
to  see  her  friend  again,  and  hoping  much  from  his 
coming,  when  he  had  told  her  of  his  intention  of 
going  home.  This  had  dispirited  her,  and  so  checked 
the  flow  of  her  ideas,  that  it  was  a  relief  to  have  Grace 
enter. 

But  Grace  did  not  instantly  recover  from  her  sur- 
prise.    She  was  constrained  and  perhaps  a  little  awk- 


ASPIRATIONS.  315 

ward.  She  took  off  her  gloves  and  stood  before  the 
fire,  as  if  too  chilled  to  speak. 

"  Mr.  Barclay  has  brought  a  budget  of  news,  Grace," 
said  her  aunt,  "  quite  a  godsend  to  us  in  our  dulness. 
And  the  most  charming  news  too  —  about  Ruth  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  know  about  Ruth,"  was  all  Grace  replied, 
looking  far  into  the  fire. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  }  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  t "  cried  her  aunt ;  then  turning  to  Mr.  Bar- 
clay, she  said,  — 

"  Ah,  Frank,  young  people  are  so  selfish.  They 
think  we  have  no  romance  left  in  us,  that  we  are 
contented  to  plod  on  the  latter  half  of  our  lives  in 
stupid  senility,  sans  eyes,  sans  teeth,  sans  every  thing." 

Mr.  Barclay  smiles  faintly,  and  looks  at  Grace,  as 
if  he  agreed  with  Miss  Alden ;  but  Grace  does  not 
respond.  She  is  thinking  how  really  ill  Mr.  Barclay 
is  looking,  how  changed  he  is. 

"  But  charming  as  the  news  of  Ruth  may  be,  in 
the  light  of  a  love-story,"  Miss  Alden  resumes,  "  I 
hope  there  is  to  be  a  substantial  pecuniary  foundar 
tion  to  her  happiness." 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mr.  Barclay  says. 

"  Mr.  Marsh  is  really  one  of  the  Romano  family,  is 
he  not?" 

"  Without  doubt." 

"  Then  he  has  but  to  assert  his  rights,  and  get  his 
money." 

"  If  he  will." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !  of  course  he  will.  He  is  no  fool. 
You  must  insist,  if  he  is  squeamish,  on  Ruth's  ac- 
count." 


3 1 6  AS  PI R  A  TIONS. 

"  Ah,  they  must  decide  for  themselves  ! " 

"  But  Ruth  is,  as  it  were,  your  own  daughter :  you 
must  look  out  for  her  interests/* 

Why  would  Miss  Alden  persist  in  putting  Mr.  Bar- 
clay into  the  position  of  a  pater  familias  ?  thought 
Grace.  She  quite  resented  it,  and  strove  to  turn  the 
talk  into  another  channel.  But  Miss  Alden  returned 
again  and  again  to  the  subject,  and  went  even  farther 
into  reminiscences  and  recollections,  and  reminded 
Mr.  Barclay  of  a  dozen  things  he  had  forgotten. 
And  then  she  came  back  to  the  present  again,  and 
told  Grace  that  their  friend  had  come  to  say  good-by, 
that  he  was  going  to  New  York. 

They  had  all  drawn  about  the  fire,  in  the  dusk,  and 
no  one  saw  Grace  shiver  and  turn  white  as  her  aunt 
gave  her  this  item  of  intelligence.  She  murmured 
something  indistinctly,  and  Miss  Alden  went  on  with 
her  monologue. 

It  was  about  their  unhappy  lot,  their  reverses,  her 
sadness  at  having  to  part  with  her  old  friend,  her 
general  dissatisfaction  with  every  thing  and  every- 
body ;  and  it  ended  in  tears,  which  obliged  Miss 
Alden  to  leave  the  room  suddenly  for  the  want  of  a 
handkerchief. 

"  Does  your  aunt  not  know,  has  she  not  heard,  that 
your  father's  business-affairs  have  been  arranged, 
and  that  the  worst  is  over } "  asks  Mr.  Barclay,  now 
addressing  Grace  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  have  not  told  her,"  responds  Grace.  "  I  have 
but  just  heard  it  myself,  and  I  have  been  afraid  of 
raising  false  hopes.  Can  you  tell  me  any  thing }  Is 
it  quite  true,  Mr.  Barclay  ? " 


ASPIRATIONS,  317 

"  So  far  as  I  know,  yes." 

"  And  who  has  been  so  kind  to  him  ?  ** 

"  Ah,  there  you  ask  too  much  !  " 

**  But  I  never  heard  of  any  friend  of  his  that  could 
have  or  would  have  done  such  a  thing.  It  is  alto- 
gether unusual,  —  something  chivalric." 

Grace  clasps  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and  gazes 
more  steadily  than  ever  into  the  fire.  Mr.  Barclay 
sees  that  her  eyes  are  moist,  and  notices  that  her  low 
voice  trembles  ;  but  he  answers  calmly  and  coolly,  — 

**  No,  it  is  nothing  remarkable, — just  one  friend 
assisting  another.     It  is  done  every  day." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  am  sure  it  is  not,  and 
I  know  but  one  person  in  all  the  world  capable  of 
doing  such  a  thing." 

"  You  overrate  it.  But  I  trust  it  may  be  the  means 
of  making  you  happier;  though  work  is,  I  believe, 
your  panacea." 

Mr.  Barclay  says  this  a  little  satirically,  and  Grace 
hesitates  to  speak  again  ;  but  she  remembers  that 
he  is  going  away,  and  she  may  never  have  another 
opportunity. 

"  Mr.  Barclay,"  she  begins,  but  her  voice  falters. 

"Well." 

His  tone  is  not  re-assuring,  it  is  curt  and  cold. 

"  May  I  thank  you  ?  "  she  says,  with  great  timidity. 

''  For  what  t  " 

"  For  every  thing." 

"No,  Grace." 

"But,  Mr.  Barclay" —  She  stops.  It  seems  impos- 
sible to  go  on,  and  he  does  not  help  her.  He  just 
glances  at  her,  and  that  is  all.     He  has  no  desire  to 


3 1 8  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

repeat  his  foolish  absurdity ;  and  she  looks  so  prettily 
girlish  in  the  firelight,  so  winning  and  lovable,  that 
he  dares  not  trust  himself  to  be  very  kind.  Of  course 
she  is  grateful ;  that  is  taken  for  granted :  and  it  is 
going  to  be  very  hard  for  him  to  say  good-by  to  her. 
But  what  is  the  use  of  all  these  words  ?  An  old  man 
like  him  should  have  known  better  than  to  have 
thought  it  possible  for  her  to  love  him. 

"  Don't  feel  obliged  to  say  any  thing,  Grace,"  he 
at  last  takes  pity  on  her  to  reply. 

"  But  I  must,"  she  persists :  *'  I  have  been  so 
proud,  so  mistaken,  so  ungrateful." 

"  In  what } "  he  asks,  as  coolly  as  ever,  but  with 
inwardly  rising  excitement. 

"  In  every  way.  I  thought  you  pitied  me  only, 
and  that,  perhaps,  if  your  sympathy  had  not  been 
taxed,  you  might  have  chosen  Ruth.  I  did  not  want 
to  stand  in  her  way.  I  did  not  want  to  be  pitied; 
and  —  and —     O  Mr.  Barclay,  do  forgive  me  !" 

Mr.  Barclay  rises  now,  and  takes  the  sobbing  girl 
in  his  arms,  as  he  whispers,  — 

"Am  I  not,  then,  quite  the  mistaken  one.?  Is  it 
possible  that  you  do  love  me,  Grace } " 

He  hardly  believes  her  when  she  says,  "  Yes  ; "  but 
he  is  contented  to  let  her  remain  sobbing  on  his 
shoulder,  where,  to  her  intense  astonishment,  Miss 
Alden  finds  her. 

"  My  dear  Grace  !  "  she  exclaims,  as  she  stops  with 
a  tragic  gesture  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  **  What 
is  the  matter } " 

Grace  hurriedly  rushes  from  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Barclay  leads  Miss  Alden  to  a  chair,  saying,  — 


AS  PI R  A  TIONS.  3 1 9 

"  She  will  be  better  soon  ;  her  nerves  are  over- 
taxed. When  she  is  composed,  may  I  have  a  little 
quiet  talk  with  her,  and  with  you  ? " 

"  Certainly,  certainly.  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you 
how  exasperated  Grace's  conduct  made  me,  but  I 
have  had  no  chance.  I  knew  how  unwise  she  was, 
but  I  thought  she  had  sense  enough  to  appreciate 
the  honor  of  being  your  wife,  Frank." 

"  I  have  something  else  to  speak  of,"  replied  Mr. 
Barclay ;  and  then  he  told  her  of  her  brother's  better 
fortune.  Miss  Alden  received  it  with  more  equa- 
nimity than  might  have  been  expected.  She  was 
glad,  of  course,  but  she  should  never  go  to  California 
or  Colorado  under  any  circumstances.  For  the  rest 
of  her  life  she  should  devote  herself  to  literary  pur- 
suits, but  Grace  might  join  her  father  as  soon  as  she 
pleased. 

"  I  will  attend  to  that,"  replied  Mr.  Barclay,  which 
somewhat  confuses  Miss  Alden,  who  cannot  make 
out  just  how  matters  stand.  But  the  tea-tray  now 
comes  in,  and  the  housemaid  lights  the  lamp ;  and, 
after  a  while,  Grace  returns,  with  re-arranged  toilet, 
and  flushed  cheeks,  and  a  little  tremor  that  makes 
her  seem  sweeter  than  ever  to  Mr.  Barclay. 

Miss  Alden  has  letters  to  write,  and  goes  to  her 
bedroom,  leaving  Grace  and  Mr.  Barclay  to  them- 
selves ;  and  then  comes  a  long  explanation  which 
satisfies  both  of  them,  though  Grace  cannot  forgive 
herself  for  inflicting  so  much  pain,  and  she  is  more 
than  ever  convinced  that  no  one  in  the  world  can 
equal  Mr.  Barclay's  tender,  generous  kindness.  He 
does  not  tell  her  what  he  has  done.     He  does  not 


3  20  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

acknowledge  any  thing.  But  she  knows  that  he  has 
been  guarding  her  for  weeks ;  that  she  has  never 
gone  out  alone  in  the  crowded  thoroughfares,  that  he 
has  not  been  near;  and  that  he  has  almost  impover- 
ished himself  to  help  her  father.  She  finds  it  out 
in  the  subtle  way  that  is  attributed  to  a  woman's 
instinct ;  and  she  no  longer  hesitates  to  tell  Mr.  Bar- 
clay that  he  is  a  prince  among  men,  and  that  she  has 
never  loved,  and  never  can  love,  any  one  else  half  so 
much. 

It  is  compensation  for  all  he  has  undergone.  He 
is  happier  than  he  had  supposed  it  possible  for  him 
ever  to  be,  with  a  fulness  and  a  depth  that  is  quite 
different  from  the  ecstatic  joy  of  youth  ;  and  he  is 
quite  untroubled  as  to  whether  Grace's  gratitude  is 
the  spring  of  her  affection.  He  knows  better.  He 
sees  her  beaming  eyes,  her  vivacity,  hears  her  soft, 
ringing  laugh,  and  is  sure  that  her  pure  gladness  is 
caused  by  his  return  to  her,  so  quick  has  been  the 
revulsion  from  doubt  to  trustfulness.  When  Miss 
Alden  has  finished  her  letters,  she  joins  the  happy 
pair  again,  and  Grace  whispers  to  her  aunt  the  glad 
tidings. 

Miss  Alden  is  more  stirred  by  this  than  by  what 
has  gone  before.  She  pressed  Mr.  Barclay's  hand, 
and  kissed  Grace  with  a  degree  of  fervor  that  had 
been  absent  from  her  caresses  a  long  while. 

When  Mr.  Barclay  has  at  last  left  them  at  a  late 
hour,  Grace  feels  obliged  to  inform  her  aunt  that  he 
is  no  longer  a  rich  man.  This  is  rather  a  sobering 
fact,  but  Miss  Alden  bears  up  wonderfully. 

"  No  matter,  child ;  you  and  I  have  gained  some 


ASPIRATIONS.  321 

Strength  by  our  vicissitudes.  So  long  as  he  is  not 
absolutely  indigent,  we  must  not  let  this  be  a  barrier 
to  your  happiness." 

Grace  smiles,  as  she  thinks  how  differently  her 
aunt  now  regards  these  matters,  and  immediately 
enters  into  her  aunt's  plans  for  visiting  the  duchess, 
—  plans  which  gild  Miss  Alden's  dreams  by  day  and 
night. 

Mr.  Barclay  lingered  in  London,  but  no  longer  a 
sad  and  weary  man  in  quest  of  something  to  fill  his 
vacant  hours.  All  his  days  were  full  with  an  inter- 
est which  only  a  wholly  new  and  fresh  hold  upon 
life  could  have  given.  Grace  would  not  consent  to 
leaving  her  work  unfinished,  or  her  engagements 
broken  ;  and  Miss  Alden  was  deeply  immersed  in 
the  construction  of  a  series  of  essays  which  she  pro- 
posed to  publish  under  the  title  of  **  English  Country 
Homes." 

It  may  be  surmised  that  her  experience  was  not 
as  wide  as  many  would  have  thought  necessary,  and 
that  her  observations  were  rather  limited,  since  her 
visit  to  the  duchess  at  Longwood  was  the  basis  of 
her  book.  But  Miss  Alden  had  already  discovered 
that  the  literary  faculty  is  one  that  will  not  allow 
itself  to  be  circumscribed,  and  that  a  large  class  may 
be  judged  from  a  single  species.  She  therefore  gave 
free  rein  to  her  imagination,  and  made  much  use  of 
facts  conveyed  to  her  by  others ;  but  her  visit  to 
Longwood  remained  the  solid  structure  of  her  book. 
And  the  visit  was  truly  a  delightful  one.  Grace 
made  wondrous  efforts  to  have  her  aunt's  toilet  all 
that  she  desired :  so  Miss  Alden's  mind  was  at  ease 


322  ASPIRATIONS. 

to  enjoy  the  distinguished  society  which  paid  her  so 
much  attentive  consideration  ;  and  the  duchess,  being 
a  really  good  woman,  was  as  simply  gracious  and 
hospitable  as  Miss  Alden  could  desire. 

She  staid  ten  days,  and  made  diligent  use  of  her 
opportunity,  coming  back  to  her  plebeian  lodgings 
with  as  much  literary  enthusiasm  as  if  she  were  a 
Goldsmith,  and  wondering  how  she  could  ever  have 
been  contented  in  not  having  a  hand  at  forming 
people's  opinions,  or  stimulating  their  ideas.  So  en- 
tirely absorbed  was  she  in  her  new  career,  that  she 
forgot  to  make  inquiry  of  Grace  as  to  just  how  Mr. 
Barclay's  fortune  had  so  dwindled. 

Letters  from  the  Potters  came  with  every  mail, 
describing  their  curious  Western  experiences  ;  the 
chaotic  state  of  affairs  in  which  mining  life  had 
thrown  them  being  always  a  subject  of  congratula- 
tion with  Miss  Alden,  in  that  she  was  not  weakly 
drawn  to  follow  them. 

"Imagine,  Grace,  seeing  women  in  costumes  by 
Worth,  out  in  that  town  of  Leadville !  It  reminds 
me  of  that  verse  in  Proverbs,  —  or  is  it  elsewhere  ?  — 
that  speaks  of  a  ring  of  silver  in  a  swine's  nose.  The 
sense  of  incongruity  is  the  same." 

Grace  laughs  at  all  her  aunt  says  now-a-days,  in 
that  quiet,  contented,  happy  way  which  makes  her 
so  much  more  companionable  than  when  she  was  so 
sadly  depressed.  But  Grace  has  grown  very  staid, 
notwithstanding  her  happiness,  and  does  not  like  any 
allusion  made  to  the  difference  of  age  between  her- 
self and  her  lover.  She  wants  to  meet  Mr.  Barclay 
more  than  half-way,  and  is  positively  glad  of  all  her 


ASPIRA  TIONS.  323 

bitter  experience,  thinking  rightly  that  it  has  made 
her  wiser  and  better.  She  is  wiser  and  better ;  but 
Mr.  Barclay  finds  her  none  too  grave,  and  is  sur- 
prised that  she  so  readily  adapts  herself  to  him  in  all 
his  plans  for  the  future,  going  even  beyond  him  in 
consideration  and  prudence. 


324  ASPIRATIONS. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

The  winter  sped  on,  and  Mr.  Barclay  did  not  re- 
turn to  his  native  land.  Nor  did  Ruth  go  to  him, 
though  the  choice  of  doing  so  was  given  her.  Under 
Sister  Camilla's  wise  and  motherly  care,  she  was  liv- 
ing a  wholly  different  life  from  the  one  of  pleasant 
wandering  she  had  spent  with  Mr.  Barclay.  Simple 
duties,  housewifely  arts,  and  thoughtful  care  of  the 
ignorant  and  the  needy  filled  her  hours  ;  saving  her 
leisure  to  cheer  and  stimulate  Lillo,  whose  hard- 
working life  was  a  constant  denial  of  the  supposition 
that  an  artist's  career  is  one  only  of  dreams  and  aspi- 
rations. 

A  letter  of  hers  to  her  guardian,  however,  must 
now  be  given,  to  show  how  she  was  developing. 

"  You  know  all  about  my  leaving  Mrs.  Vedder,  and  the  fear- 
ful occurrence  which  so  soon  followed  that  affair.  But  you  can 
hardly  know  how  much  I  dreaded  ever  seeing  her  again.  I  flat- 
tered myself  that  there  would  never  be  any  necessity  for  my 
doing  so ;  and  that  she  was  as  glad  to  be  left  alone,  as  I  was 
willing  to  leave  her.  But  Sister  Camilla  could  or  would  not 
look  at  the  matter  as  I  did.  She  implored  me  to  see  my  aunt, 
and  do  what  I  might  to  soothe  her  sorrow.  It  was  an  ordeal 
which  I  wished  to  evade.  But  Sister  Camilla  never  lets  a  duty 
rest ;  and  at  last  I  yielded,  and  wrote  to  my  aunt,  asking  if  I 
could  see  her.  To  my  surprise  she  assented,  and  appointed  a 
time  for  me  to  visit  her.    Lillo  would  not  let  me  go  alone, 


ASP  IRA  TIONS.  325 

though  I  insisted  that  he  should  not  appear  as  my  escort.  We 
therefore  started  one  cold  morning,  on  an  early  train,  and 
reached  Berryville  in  less  than  three  hours.  No  one  but  a  hired 
man  met  us  at  the  station,  which  was  wrapped  in  snow,  and 
had  few  signs  of  life  about  it,  standing,  as  it  did,  on  the  edge 
of  a  little  village  which  seemed  another  Sleepy  Hollow.  We 
drove  about  two  miles  out  of  the  town,  over  a  hilly  road,  which 
in  summer  must  be  very  picturesque,  and  came  to  rather  an 
ornate  villa-sort-of-a-place,  with  a  pretentious  gateway,  and  an 
abundance  of  deciduous  trees.  Here  I  made  them  let  me  walk, 
leaving  Lillo  with  the  man  who  had  driven  us ;  for,  much  as  I 
feared  to  meet  aunt  Abby,  much  more  was  I  unwilling  to  have 
Mr.  Marsh  possibly  insulted  by  her,  when  she  knew  (as  I  meant 
to  tell  her)  that  he  was  to  be  my  husband. 

"  Well,  I  reached  the  house,  and  was  shown  to  a  gaudy  parlor, 
full  of  useless  and  hideous  bric-a-brac.  Vulgarity  was  in  every 
line  of  its  satin  and  velvet  furniture,  in  its  glaring  color  and  ab- 
sence of  taste ;  and  I  shuddered  to  think  what  would  have  been 
my  fate,  if  a  kind  Providence  had  not  rescued  me  from  the 
hands  that  had  fashioned  this.  Not  a  book  was  to  be  seen, 
unless  you  call  those  gilt-hasped  albums  which  contain  the  cari- 
catured features  of  fat  and  lean  humanity,  simpering  on  their 
pages,  books.  (O  dear  Mr.  Barclay^  how  I  thank  you  for  not 
leaving  me  to  my  rich  relations  !)  If  all  had  only  been  plain  and 
poor  and  clean,  how  much  sweeter  my  thoughts  would  have  been  ! 
I  was  all  in  a  ferment  by  the  time  I  was  allowed  to  go  up-stairs. 
Aunt  Abby  had  been  making  her  toilet,  and  I  could  hardly  see 
her  for  the  folds  of  crape  which  swept  around  her  and  in  yards 
on  the  floor  behind  her ;  but  the  flashing  light  of  her  diamonds 
helped  me  on  a  little.  And  I  looked  in  her  face  to  see  that  she 
had  sent  for  me,  not  to  soothe,  not  to  sympathize,  not  to  let  me 
see  that  sorrow  was  refining  her;  but  to  rebuke,  to  reproach,  to 
sting  me  !  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  suffering  I  really  expected 
and  hoped  to  see.  It  was  not  there.  She  answered  my  look 
with  positive  defiance,  as  she  said,  — 

"  '  So  you've  come  at  last,  have  you  ?' 

" '  Yes,'  I  replied,  *  Aunt  Abby ;  and  I  would  have  come  be- 
fore, if  I  had  thought  I  could  do  you  any  good.* 


326  ASPIRATIONS. 

"  She  laughed  contemptuously  as  she  said,  *  Do  me  good !  I 
think  you  need  to  do  that  to  yourself.' 

"  *  There's  no  doubt  of  that,'  I  answered ;  '  but  I  meant  some- 
thing rather  different,  —  I  know  yours  was  a  sudden  and  terri- 
ble sorrow.' 

"  *  Oh,  there,  there ! '  she  cried  out,  *  for  pity's  sake,  stop !  You 
might  have  prevented  it  all :  it  was  your  hatefulness  to  Charley 
that  made  him  more  than  ever  careless  and  wild,  —  you,  with 
your  stuck-up,  proud  notions  of  being  above  us  all.  Cauldwell 
was  right,  for  once,  when  he  gave  you  that  lecture.  Mr.  Barclay 
spoiled  you  out  and  out.  Charley  was  a  fool  for  his  pains,  and 
so  was  I.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  you,  I  wish  you  had  staid 
in  Europe,  with  all  your  high-falutin  ideas.  And  then  to  have 
you  come  and  tell  me  you  want  to  do  me  good,  when  you  know 
you  hate  us  all;  and  think' —  But  here  her  sobs  made  her 
inarticulate. 

"  I  was  so  horrified  that  I  could  not  move.  I  longed  to  rush 
from  the  room.  I  felt  as  guilty  as  if  every  word  she  uttered 
were  entirely  true,  and  I  suppose  I  looked  as  I  felt ;  for  after 
a  while  she  ceased  crying,  and  said  in  a  voice  less  sharp,  but  still 
angry,  'I  suppose  you'll  marry  that  Italian  count,  now;  but  I 
don't  see  what  you  find  in  hhn.^ 

"  The  quick  revulsion  of  feeling  that  this  caused  enabled  me 
to  speak;  and,  summoning  all  my  dignity,  I  said  as  gently  as  I 
could,  for  all  my  indignation,  anger,  and  a  sense  of  the  absurdity 
of  the  situation,  now  that  she  had  turned  with  so  evident  curi- 
osity to  my  affairs,  — 

" '  Aunt  Abby,  you  and  I  have  both  made  serious  mistakes  ; 
pardon  me  for  supposing,  even  for  a  moment,  that  I  could  be 
of  any  use  to  you  now  or  at  any  other  time.  I  thought  that 
I  might  offer  sympathy  without  offence,  but  I  see  my  error.  I 
have  but  added  to  your  troubles  in  coming  here.  I  will  go  now. 
Good-by.' 

"  At  this  she  relented  a  little,  and  looked  ashamed ;  but  still 
she  said, '  You  might  have  saved  Charley ;  you  might  have  given 
him  a  chance.  I  don't  see  why  you  couldn't  have  been  kinder, 
and  I  don't  know  what  you  find  in  that  footy  painter.  It's  all 
because  Mr.  Barclay  hadn't  the  sense  to  bring  you  up  as  he 


ASPIRATIONS.  327 

ought  to  have  done.  He's  got  all  those  stuck-up  Boston 
notions,  and  he's  spoiled  you ;  and,  after  all,  I  don't  know 
whether  you  are  going  to  be  his  wife,  or  the  other  one's. 
Whichever  it  is,  poor  Charley  might  have  been  given  a  chance.' 

"  All  this  tirade  gave  me  a  chance  to  collect  myself,  and  be 
cool :  so  I  repeated  something  of  the  same  sort  that  I  had  said 
before,  and  tried  to  get  away ;  but  now  she  softened  still  more, 
and  wept  and  wailed  and  deplored  her  miseries. 

"Will  you,  can  you,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  in 
another  hour  I  had  begged  Lillo  to  go  to  the  city  without  me, 
and  that  I  staid  in  that  wretched  house  a  whole  week? 

"When  the  crape  and  diamonds  came  off,  aunt  Abby  was 
another  woman.  She  begged  my  pardon  ;  she  implored  me  to 
forget  every  thing  she  had  said  ;  she  unearthed  all  her  treasures 
in  the  way  of  photographs  of  her  children,  and  souvenirs  of 
their  infancy ;  and  she  so  drained  my  sympathies  that  I  was  as 
limp  and  lifeless  as  a  rag.  For  a  whole  week  I  staid,  and 
listened  to  ber  monologues.  I  received  Mr.  Boggs  every  time 
he  came  to  see  aunt  Abby;  heard  all  his  boastful  harangues 
with  all  the  patience  at  my  command.  I  hope  he  did  not  detect 
my  weariness,  for  I  really  tried  to  be  interested  in  what  he 
talked  about.  Sister  Camilla  says  we  must  forget  the  outer 
rind  of  the  individual,  and  remember  only  his  spiritual  essence. 
But  I  find  it  so  hard  to  do  this.  We  are  not  all  as  able  to  do  it 
as  she  is.  Every  one  interests  her,  because  she  is  always  think- 
ing of  souls  more  than  of  bodies. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Barclay,  I  now  fully  realize  what  a  kind- 
ness yours  has  been.  What  if  I  had  been  living  all  these  years 
under  these  influences ! " 

Again  she  wrote,  — 

"  I  have  been  to  see  my  grandfather.  It  is  a  curious  sort  of 
thing  to  look  at  one's  blood  relations  from  such  an  outside 
point  of  view.  Sister  Camilla  went  with  me.  He  lives  in  one 
of  the  old  houses  on  V.  Square,  alone,  with  only  strange  old 
colored  servants,  as  queer  as  himself.  The  house  is  very 
spacious,  but  very  bare  of  every  thing  but  books.     He  is  a  man 


328  ASP  IRA  TIONS. 

of  fine  presence,  but  reminds  me  of  one  of  his  own  volumes, 
uncut.  He  may  have  plenty  of  wisdom  within,  but  no  one  is 
the  better  for  it;  and  the  reserved  cover  is  stiff  with  want  of 
usage.  Imagine  what  I  would  have  been,  left  to  his  untender 
mercies!  I  should  have  grown  into  some  sickly  specimen  of 
sun-deprived  plant,  without  force  enough  of  my  own  to  find 
sun  and  air  and  moisture ;  and  so  again  I  thank  you,  dear  Mr. 
Barclay.  Sister  Camilla  and  I  strove  to  interest  him  in  St. 
Armand's,  whose  bell  has  rung  in  his  ears  year  in,  year  out, 
without  producing  so  much  as  an  echoing  tinkle  in  his  heart. 
He  listened  to  us  politely,  expressed  some  cut-and-dried  plati- 
tudes about  religion,  and  turned  at  once  to  show  his  fine  stock 
of  Bibles  in  all  languages  and  bindings.  The  print,  the  covers, 
the  edition,  were  all  in  all  to  him ;  but  no  farther  did  he  go. 
I  never  saw  so  near  an  approach  to  a  look  of  despair  on  Sister 
Camilla's  fine  features.  I  think,  if  she  had  been  alone,  she 
would  have  made  some  attempt  to  probe  into  his  poor  old 
heart,  and  stir  it  to  some  purpose;  but  having  me  with  her 
restrained  her  zeal,  for  she  hopes  that  in  time  I  may  gain  some 
good  influence,  but  I  see  no  chance  of  it.  He  is  as  fixed  and 
firm  as  an  old  fossil." 

Thus  ran  the  letters.  Mr.  Barclay  read  them  aloud 
to  Miss  Alden  and  Grace. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Barclay,"  commented  Miss  Alden, 
"you  made  a  mistake  in  letting  Ruth  go  home  with 
that  horrid  woman.  But  how  sweetly  grateful  the 
child  is  !  and  how  fortunate  that  she  should  have  met 
Miss  Deforest ! " 

"  Yes,  it  is  more  than  fortunate,  for  I  never  could 
have  given  her  half  so  much  help  in  all  her  difficul- 
ties. But  I  do  not  regard  her  going  as  a  mistake.  In 
no  other  way  could  she  have  gained  quite  such  an 
experience.  A  human  life  is  a  serious  trust.  I  never 
realized  the  fact  so  entirely  as  now." 


ASPIRATIONS.  329 

He  looked  at  Grace  contemplatively,  and  she  re- 
sponding, said,  — 

"Few  men  would  have  accepted  the  trust  so 
generously." 

It  is  a  soft,  early  summer  morning,  the  sky  flecked 
with  white  clouds,  and  the  air  full  of  promise  and 
balmy  freshness,  —  a  morning  when  Nature  rejoices 
that  the  winter  with  its  dreariness  and  darkness  is 
over,  and  the  time  of  singing  of  birds  has  come. 
The  neighborhood  of  St.  Armand's,  having  a  square 
with  plenty  of  velvet  turf  and  shady  trees,  is  very 
pleasant  in  the  early  summer;  though  St.  Armand's 
itself  is  no  brighter,  tucked  away  as  it  is  among 
the  poor,  dismal  little  houses  that  have  seen  better 
days  a  very  long  while  ago.  It  does  its  best,  how- 
ever, to  be  cheerful  this  morning ;  and  its  old  cracked 
bell  has  rung  as  usual  for  prayers,  and  its  few  old 
women  have  been  devout  worshippers.  They  stop 
and  talk,  and  look  wonderstruck,  to  see  several  car- 
riages driving  up ;  and  all  the  poor  children  from  far 
and  near  throng  about  its  entrance  as  Sister  Camilla 
appears  with  large  baskets  of  flowers,  and  gives  them 
right  and  left  to  the  forlorn  little  waifs.  The  flowers 
seem  to  instantly  invest  them  all  with  an  appearance 
of  festive  preparation,  which  atones  for  ragged  clothes 
and  unwashed  faces,  and  the  shrill  little  voices  rise 
as  joyfully  in  the  air  as  those  of  the  twittering  spar- 
rows. The  old  organ  raises  its  voice  too,  and  peals 
forth  the  "Wedding  March;"  and,  though  the  guests 
are  not  very  many,  the  fact  that  there  are  two  brides 
quite  overawes  the  spectators. 


330  ASPIRA  TIONS. 

The  group  about  the  altar  is  a  picturesque  one,  in 
spite  of  the  prim  snugness  of  the  men's  morning- 
coats  :  for  the  brides  are  all  filmy  lace  and  shining 
silk ;  and  Sister  Camilla,  in  her  nun's  dress,  stands 
beside  Ruth ;  and  Miss  Alden,  in  turquoise-blue 
velvet,  hovers  over  Grace.  The  chancel  is  filled  with 
graceful  plants,  and  the  votive  offerings  beneath  the 
picture  of  "  The  Empty  Cross  *'  are  of  fairest  and 
purest  blossoms. 

After  the  ceremony  they  leave  St.  Armand's  to  its 
silent  pews  and  much  better  filled  than  usual  alms- 
box,  and  all  drive  over  to  the  north  side  of  the 
square,  where  an  accommodating  architect  has  fitted 
up  one  of  the  old  houses  with  the  brick  and  marble 
fronts  into  an  artistic  haunt  for  a  colony  of  people 
who  want  something  green  for  their  eyes  to  rest  on 
when  they  look  out  of  their  windows,  and  where  Mr. 
Barclay,  as  well  as  Mr.  Marsh,  have  suites  of  apart- 
ments. Strange  to  say,  it  is  just  beside  the  house 
where  Ruth's  queer  and  crusty  old  grandfather  lives, 
whose  acquaintance  has  been  made  so  recently,  and 
who,  though  he  does  not  come  to  the  wedding-feast, 
sends  a  gift  of  old  folios  which  Mr.  Barclay  pro- 
nounces very  unique.  Some  one  suggests  that 
checks  to  Ruth's  order  would  have  been  of  more  im- 
mediate and  practical  value,  which  Lillo  indignantly 
repudiates.  Well  he  may,  now  that  orders  for  pic- 
tures are  coming  in  so  fast  he  can  hardly  fill  them  ; 
this  he  attributes  not  to  his  genius,  not  to  any  of  his 
own  ability,  but  to  the  lift  his  romantic  story  has 
given  him.  Americans,  he  says,  care  more  for  ro- 
mance than  for  art,  though  why  they  separate  the 


ASPIRATIONS.  331 

two  is  not  so  palpable.  Another  giver  of  gifts  is 
Mrs.  Vedder,  who  was  in  the  church  swathed  in  crape 
blacker  than  midnight.  She  was  not  to  be  outdone 
by  the  duchess,  who  gave  Grace  some  beautiful  lace 
and  antique  bric-d-bmc :  so  she  sends  diamonds, — 
big  blazmg  brilliants,  for  Ruth  to  wear  when  (as  she 
insists)  she  is  the  Countess  Romano. 

The  house  on  the  square  has  been  re-arranged  and 
re-built  under  Lillo's  eye.  All  its  wide  space  has 
been  compressed  into  suites  of  apartments,  full  of 
quaint  conceits  and  pretty  devices  for  making  small 
homes  convenient.  There  are  all  the  cosey  corners 
for  lounging-chairs  or  tea-tables ;  the  portihes^  the 
brasses,  the  stained  glass,  the  tiles,  rest  and  refresh 
the  eye  upon  the  interior  as  do  the  old  trees  and 
clipped  grass  and  waving  shadows  upon  the  exterior. 
But  in  addition  to  all  these  the  Romano  cousin  has 
sent  over  old  chairs  and  tapestries  from  the  Italian 
palace.  He  is  only  too  glad  to  be  left  in  undisturbed 
possession  of  the  estate,  and  willingly  cedes  all  else 
that  Lillo  asks,  —  which  is  only  enough  for  artistic 
"properties."  America  is  more  to  him  than  Italy, 
and  Ruth  more  than  America,  and  she  has  decided 
that  their  lives  shall  be  spent  here,  between  this  city 
home  and  the  old  house  on  the  sands,  which  holds 
still  for  them  its  charm  of  silence  and  rest  and  sim- 
plicity ;  a  place  where  their  love  may  brood  and  grow 
strong  of  wing ;  where  the  spirit  of  faith  and  peace 
and  hope  shall  prepare  them  for  the  conflicts  of  the 
outer  world,  and  contemplation  shall  enrich  and  ripen 
their  souls. 


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